Pentre Village

By Phil Wood

The driest May and fear of drought and virus,
that smear of honeydew, and sallow leaves.
Our wish list idles in a camping van.

She opens bedroom windows for a breeze,
it’s too humid for sleep. There’s no reprieve.
With greenfly gravity the sweet peas sag.

Garden mages pray for rain. To our surprise
June brings a bible of floods. The slugs are back.
The aphids bloat and slack. A soggy demise.

Sandbags in Pentre, in Rhondda Cynon Taff:
time to move on, the wife says. But we won’t.
Our clinging to the past is bindweed graft.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and growing vegetables.

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Helen Deal
Helen Deal
10 months ago

Some great images and language in your poem. There’s a strong feeling of languor and inertia – pretty relatable!

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