2 Poems by Gareth Culshaw

Mail

.
THE ROUNDS
.
His bag emptier with every street.
Socks sagged around his ankles.
The lever in, slip, release
over and over.
.
Odd numbers, even numbers, rusty
hinges. Wind battered gates that
knocked their whole lives. Seeing
.
the sun spread itself over his daily
plot. The snip of a latch, clock turn
handle, heave the hinge-less, walk
.
through the gate-less, unbolt
the formal. Listening to the barking
and cawing, the snap of car lock.
.
Taking it all in his stride, the passing
of the unknown. Wearing away
his years until he himself slips
.
and drops.
.
Brick
.
 
PERPS
.
The perps were our line
the joint between bricks, that
buttering of two faces, softening
.
the wall. Making us believe
things were not as hard as they seemed.
Flemish Bond, English Bond, Stretcher
.
Bond, some bricks halved, others
in wait like a waiting foot. The weight
of it all, building before us.
.
Those years when time is of no height.
And walls had no theme, other than
something to clamber over.
.
We ignored the perps, seeing them
as a weakness. A scoop with a trowel,
tap with the butt end, dink with the edge,
.
not realising that for every brick we laid
corners came into our lives, and shadows
and shadows, and shadows.
.
Gareth
.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who has his first collection by futurecycle in 2018.

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