Sunday By Jonathan Butcher

That slow sky staggers down. 

Over the soot-stained slates 

and mile-wide pot holes, over 

the smashed shop fronts and 

unmanned privet hedges.

That sky drifts over feet, that 

slowly wear down grass verges

with constant half miles. Past 

the day walkers that nod politely,

but without recognition. 

That same sliver of despondence,

that flows from food banks to up-turned 

parks. The same eyes that look with

nothing but contempt, like cracked marbles,

that reflect anything but light.

The brick houses still remain the same,

any attempt at white wash has now faded. 

This road still twists like mattered hair, 

dragged back from its scalp. Just to continue

seems enough to keep the wolves at bay. 

About Jonathan Butcher:

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work
appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Sick-Lit,
The Transnational, The Morning Star, Plastic Futures, Picaroon Poetry, Amaryllis
and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' has been published by Flutter Press.