Thursday, 06 June 2024 19:12


Written by
in Poetry


by Stephen Paul Wren

We sing Grease songs, make daisy chains.
I grasp nettles, make my hands sore.
Teresa finds Mrs Dixon.
The trees are young and fit and strong.
Outside, the field, a chaos spreads.
The milk is stolen from our schools.

Rise up the property ladder.
Concorde is flying overhead.
The treadmill is licked. No problem.
The punks know something of the truth.
The mildew on walls. Broken hearts.
Yes, the injustice of it all.

Read 323 times Last modified on Sunday, 16 June 2024 08:06
Stephen Paul Wren

Stephen Paul Wren is a senior lecturer in pharmaceutical chemistry, with many published poetry collections to his name.