The March Wind...

The March winds howl through the Rhondda vale....

Rain slivers like sheets of steel opening the envelope of fog....

Blackened spoons and heroin needles oxidise gently under swaying hedgerows....

The old man trundles wearily , trilby in hand, hob nailed boots, two steps forward, one back....

Up narrow terraced back lane, crooked gates clap hands to the time of the windy beat...

Window panes shimmer dancing light, fuelled by the coal fires glowing embers.....

Dawn kettles whistle, shovels scuttle and pigeons coo awaiting their next race....

Dante would feel at home in this sad beaten town!
roots2life roots2life
46-50, M
1 Response May 10, 2012

Really like the imagery!

Yes, I rushed it a bit... Needs a little re-working especially the ending... Thanks for commenting ;-)