Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Chris Wallace-Crabbe

   When heavy-booted
men with dark hair and whiskers
have been re-stumping the house
you find these odd small
wodges of black clay

scattered on the concrete
like sinister dog turds
or the future stuff
of archaeologyremnants
from the Mobile Phone age

                                in which the intensely pink
   nubs against a brown twig
                                signal that a prunus
   can imagine spring,
                                ignoring the flames of Baghdad.

Copyright © 2007 by Chris Wallace-Crabbe