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Poetry
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| A Sunday Sonnet | |
| By CliffBowes | ||||||||||||||
| 01 February 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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A view of the North of England inspired by an LS lowry print which hangs in our bathroom. Written in the English sonnet form Coal smoke, drifting into surreal black clouds. The Salvation Army hymns drift from the park. A grimy church awaits its meagre crowds. The rattle of bairns’ hoops and dogs that bark, Echo on the rain damp cobbles of the street. Where gossiping mams, arms akimbo, stand. Old men walk with sticks, their comrades to meet On street corners, to talk of wars, second-hand. By the church, the young girls chatter and fuss. Giggling, as the boys strut by, right on cue. “Half-Past the Hour”, loud church bells inform us, Time to look for a hard, un-cushioned pew. Time to put Yorkshires and beef on the heat. Time to escape from this Lowryesque street.
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