Tuesday, 29 October 2019

POEM

I don't write much poetry these days.  Here's a short, simple one.  I don't seem to be able to set it in the lines in which it was written, so I've run it together, separating the lines with a slash.

WHAT MY MOTHER MIGHT HAVE SAID ABOUT HER BOOK
What is your book about, asked the critic / and she said running.  Running? He frowned. / Yes, running.  But it’s set in 1950. / We ran in 1950, she said. But - / But nothing, she said. It was 1950,  / and it was our turn to be alive.

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