Webbed garden spider
strung badminton net fashion
your luncheon is served
Bio: Tracey Walsh has been enjoying life since early retirement in 2013. Indulging a lifelong love of crime fiction by starting a book review blog, she has also discovered a new interest in photographing local Lancashire countryside and wildlife. This is Tracey’s first attempt at poetry since school days.
In the time it would take for the light from the moon to evaporate the oceans we could begin to pile up an island with the collected dreck of wars. Downed planes, tanks like evacuated beetles and other chewed vehicles would provide rigor mortis foundations. The island would be looking as if it was badly tin foiled. Then we could skim the globe, lifting bits up like finger nails – acned sabres, tobacco cannons and mistakable buttons. But after the obvious litter how do we then reclaim all the flint axe-heads for some placement? Do we include found pots and pans once loved by men more than pikes and javelins? And what of the articles of the innocent – was the trunk of sleeping schoolbooks never opened after a certain siren? Were the child’s ditched bike and the winded radio still tuned to a mother’s favourite station forgotten beyond a rupture?