Same Sky

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is about my home town and the frustration that I have felt in being unable to return to live there. Observations while dog walking in the National Trust area of Formby.

Submitted: August 16, 2011

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Submitted: August 16, 2011



Same Sky.


The taut lead a tightrope, my shoulder so sore.

We arrive at the pinewoods, both foot and big paw.

My mate is akin to a child on the floor,

As he bumbles and stumbles his way through a war

With his senses acute and so very alert,

He fumbles and grumbles and growls at the dirt.


Paws and feet crush needles into their cushion

Of cones and green moss as we continue our mission

To scare off the Grey and rehome the Red,

To their natural abode, a welcoming bed

Of luxurious moist air aroming thick pine and sap,

Upon which does carry a muted dull clap

Of my hands as I spiral and gaze up at the sky

That is slashed and attacked by the thin arms of pine.


I wish they were mine, those arms and their cones

And their petulant swishing as I stand alone with my mate

Wishing that this was my home.


These woods have a ceiling through which peeps the sky.

Thick carpet beneath confirming the lie

That we are indoors, I’m sure that’s the truth,

These cylindrical royal pillars that hold up the roof

Of this magical place, it’s a pleasure to roam,

Just like the Red, our haven, our home.


The pines hide the dunes and the ocean beyond

And a distant sharp point, Formby’s arrow, a wand.

Pointing upwards and further to the escaping sky,

From the canopy of trees and I wonder why,

I’m denied this contentment from beneath the same sky.


A steam train behind me, he pants when he’s done.

And we scuffle back to a house that was once

A fairy lit bauble on a tree of my past.

My childhood has gone - a man …. at last.


From the sea to the beach to the pines to the field,

To the house and the life that my heart loves to feel,

Is so real and alive yet so dead but awake,

My memories fracture, they tremor and quake

At the sound of this village, the distant hum of a plane,

Generations roll on but this place remains the same.


My mate has a thirst, a lot like my own.

This walk is now done and we both have flown

The nests of our yesterdays, we’re on our way back.

He ponders the floor, his lead loose and slack.



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