Chance and Fine Things

Backyard cracked knuckles
with unattended weals,
devoid of moisture and
starved of cream, began.
Courtesans of men of rank,

living their identities out,
buckling their knees,
pulling back possibilities
in fluent solidarity and
fine, unrequited dreams.

There’s still hope in the
rubble of emulsion and
skirting boards, frames
and acrylic, synthetic or
real glass ceilings in this

sometime state-of-the-art
partly demolished block
of flats, where no-one tried
too hard to have a heart, it
came naturally like a spark

or a pigment reflecting light
off lintels, live wires and
cut copper cables. On the
rooftop, holding on tightly
to solitary experiences,

there’s a chance of settling
down completely at dusk in
a thrilling stillness tonight.
The quality of air above
the flyover is astounding.

Julie Hogg is a Poet who enjoys flipping words around each other so that they have a chance of looking, sounding and meaning their very best. She is interested in things which may have been missed, either accidentally or on purpose.

Further information  is available on twitter @hogg_julie