To convert next door, to my dismay
My garage spot, so deeply prized
And so convenient, is demised!
Henceforth my car stays in the street
To find a park is quite a feat!
At eight each morning workmen come;
With roof tiles off, bare beams see sun.
Exposed, iron girders bob and sway
Cracked, ageing brickwork on display!
A lonely light bulb hangs forlorn
Its days are numbered, wires all torn...
As Poet-in-the-Woods now writes
Beyond the terrace are new sights
Fir trees which give the street its name
The skyline dominate again.
Two men intent upon their task
Use crowbars; work proceeds quite fast
Rickety ladders propped on walls;
No safety harness – if one falls ...
(c) Poet in the woods 2019
No comments:
Post a Comment