Dennis Leckey
We were not our places
We were not our places
Not a grey mill town
nor an artificial park.
Not a wet pebble
nor a shell of silver.
Not a daffodil
nor a graveyard
deserted, unused,
our playground:
dog and boy.
Not mountains
nor hills.
Nor wild winds
Of moorland power.
Not any place
am I.
Were we.
Natural things were our canvas,
we were prominent in the paintings.
Their colours wait.
Emptier now, they wait.
Page(s) 16
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