A Poem by Jonathan Butcher

 

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.