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12 September 2013

House on the A34

A poem by Philip Hancock.

By philip hancock

The walls are white,
the garage doors yellow.
 
Sun-trap bay windows
view fields and fields,
 
telegraph poles, a dark steeple.
Almost opposite
 
in the gaps between trucks
the electrical salesman, Mr Wykes:
 
seven minutes to three,
company bunkum on the back seat.
 
A safe bet the magnetic eves
have had their way with the wasps.
 
He reads the sky in the bent glass.
A pram or a suitcase inside the porch.
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