After the Sunday shift on Blaina Wharf,
keeping a tally of hot rolled coil
loaded into the holds, my fingers were
so cold I heard the crack of bones in graves.
I guess that’s why I saw the lad who looked
like a younger me, kicking a ball against
my door. And when I picked the scab on my hand,
I heard my voice calling pass, pass the ball.
My Neighbour’s House Is For Sale
The whiskered face bristled like the dry grass,
his gardener’s worried eyes combing the sky
for rain. The clouds, of course, a dogged fluff
of unbothered white not bound to season.
Like an arthritic oak, bark weathered,
his arms unwrapping for splendid rainbows;
his legs now rooted in the cracks of clay
until muddles of puddles clouded his eyes.
In Ludlow we found distraction
in a tea room, consumed apple cake
beneath Tudor beams. I offered
chit-chat, about painting rooms;
through stained glass you saw a boy
splash puddles. Happiness is hoarded
close-by, not bothered by rain. It nests
in webs beneath your sleepy eyes.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. Published work can be found in various publications, including: Sein und Werden, The Centrifugal Eye, London Grip, The Open Mouse, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Lampeter Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron.