We take slow trains to London moving clack-
clack past back door and yards sculpted in junk
with treasure troves of things they thought they loved;
sheds and beds and secret hiding places,
biding spaces where a subtle peace comes
in the company of tools, and little
pieces of life spool out in dormant dreams
of better vegetables and jobs not got.
Coffee cups unwashed gather dry dust of
fading wishes. From inside the train's fug
I send a passing hug to denizens
of suburbia; all the dads and mums,
toddlers and teenagers building artful
lives amidst those backyard boneyards of hope.
James Mills
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/boneyards/
