The Morning Journey
Over cast white skies, offer a blanket
that connects both clouds and ground,
and offers this fragile cocoon, as I pass
the rail side gardens littered with rusted
beer cans, over turned tables and Union
Jacks flying at half mast.
The muddy bankings sprayed with rabbit holes
like a field of eyes, that seem far to shallow
to hold any kind of life, offer little shadow,
over the empty green bottles that are piled
up like old ruins.
Those extra two hours, that stretch out my
shift, like a stubborn thief upon a rack, they
force me to avoid the faces still incased in
the vastness this place offers, despite its
limitations, their hands just as idle as ever
form fists, that still remain as brittle as ever.
And the slight breeze here, that carries
any yells away from me, allows that keyboard,
dusted with dead skin and boredom, to fade to
the back of my head, and lets me walk just that
little bit lighter.
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield in the North of England. He has had work appear in various print on on-line publications including: Underground Voices, The Rusty Nail, Electric Windmill Press, Black Listed Magazine, Dead Snakes, Turbulence, Gutter Eloquence, Dead Beats, Popshot Magazine, and others. His forthcoming chapbook 'Concrete Cradle' is to be published by Fire Hazard Press.