Poem #18

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Outside Alice you’ll find

a house-covered hill,

row upon row gaping

roofless and doorless

– grimacing at some

corrupted contract left undone.


It is a ghost town

though no-one has lived or died here,

the rough streets have not rung

with children’s trills or mothers’ calls

– barren shells, the houses stretch

into the distance of broken promises.


The wasteland becomes a sketch

in my workbook, for I see a quilt

blanketing the skyline,

a hill covered in painted blocks

curiously coloured. (The painter

must have kept to his contract.)


Back home I turn the sketch

into a cotton quilt of happy houses,

doored, windowed and roofed

ready for occupation

in a world where no-one lives,

but promises are dreamt into fulfilment.

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12 thoughts on “Poem #18

  1. Mariss, another exquisite quilt but the poem, the poem leaves me wordless. It brings tears to my eyes. It tells the story of so many hills in so many places and of so many broken promises. You have an extraordinary gift.


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