Polly

Writings and Witterings

Twisted Wisps

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The twisted old tree
At the foot
Of the garden
Is really my grandfather.

His timepiece in the hall
Ticks off the days,
Clay pipe on the mantle shelf
Mouthes his presence.

Boots on the gravel
Lead to the door,
Stamp on the doormat
Same as before,

Rocking chair creaks
In time with soft chimes,
Wisps of smoke
Evoke, cloak, smile at the joke.

Polly Robinson © 1988

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