A poem from last night's Open MIc
This and That
The wind rises and falls,
strengthens then drops away.
Washing on the line sways,
lifts, billows. The bed sheet flaps
and slaps itself, happy.
The sun disappears, and then re-appears.
The coffee is a rich deep brown in the cup.
Flower buds are forming, a profound pulse
forcing a dream of bloom through the stem.
A towel, brown as my coffee, dances on the line,
swirling its skirt at the nonchalant sheet.
Somewhere, unseen, a family has no food to eat,
a state servant tortures a jailed dissident
and a woman lies dying on a dirty street.
© Dave Urwin 2020