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Trampletown

April 11, 2016

 

 

My sabbatical from the Camembert

and semantics of Swindon

ended.

 

The mechanics constituted

slumps of down in the dumps

and what we were when civic was a duty

not a hatchback.

 

I've said before and I said it yesterday

give me Liddington Hill

in a handful of pills

or drive down

Station Road in my Metro -

pedals on wet black boots.

 

Poundland

is sound land

with chatter

of natter

behind the flimsy

film-flam copper on the window.

 

Chalk is running rivers of mud

down Enoch Street.

Give me a bucket, Domestos, Dean Young

or Churchward

or Gooch

or Collett.

 

Collett with ravines as wide as that smile

and hardy laurel roundabouts

that hardly seem the size of

Jaffa Cakes these days.

The old world is over and the new one is waiting gingerly

in the shed.

 

A pint of creosote

with a Round-Up chaser

and a bow-roofed wagon,

wheeled

away

forever.

 

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