Hi Mike,
Terrific description here. As a poem, for me, there is nothing else
happening other than what is described. That I feel is where this one
doesn't quite give me that chill factor that says something.
bw
James
>From: Mike Horwood <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: Soaked
>Date: Mon, 15 Mar 2004 14:09:55 +0200
>
>Soaked
>
>It was a wet morning in `61 or `2
>when the rain streamed down in rods
>from a grey sky and shattered round our shoes.
>
>There were jumping pockmarks on a ground
>where we could not separate asphalt from puddle
>on a day before we knew the word `torrential´.
>
>The playground was deserted and hazy,
>the school entrance a frame for heaving backs
>pushing the blockage in front, and wet, grey socks.
>
>The jostling mass carried me on to the cloakroom,
>the muggy atmosphere full of the jabber of voices
>and smell of wet gabardine heavy in my nose
>
>as I squirmed and squeezed along the line
>of uniform navy-blue raincoats to the haven
>of my familiar peg, determined by my rank
>
>in the height range of my class.
>Then the struggle with belt and sleeves,
>a residual dampness, single file, bang of desk-lids.
>
>
>
>
>Mike
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