I hadn’t known what it was
To wake ‘with a start’
Til that frost-bitten morning
When the tiler came.
His ladder clattered
Against the wall
With such a hearty clunk
That any dream I may have
Been dreaming was torn
Open, and light poured in.
His body, bug-eyed
By the wintry glass
Between us,
Lurched up the rungs
Like a sleepwalker,
Hammer nodding on his hip,
The scrape of tiles
Dragging me from my bed
To sit at the desk
And stare at the ice
On his boots, of which
There is so much to say.
-
Author:
Ryan Robson-Bluer (
Offline) - Published: December 1st, 2022 04:41
- Comment from author about the poem: a poem about inspiration
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 26
Offline)
Comments1
Ahh, that'll be this morning then - frost-bitten and fog. In your area too?
We've had it mild-ish for ages.
We might say - 'I'm sure it's usually chiller, starting weeks ago, e.g. October!'
I'm in the North-East of England - it sure is getting cold!
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