“Market Day” by Dean Reeves

cromwell rd1

The sound of the horse’s earnest labour becomes a whisper,

Sprites of dust at his feet, rush away in fright;

Tired darkened eyes of the driver, hidden under a weathered cloth cap, search into the distance,

Leathered hands, drawn tight on cracked reins, are set determined and firm.

Thunder draws, as a box of steel drives through memories past; fading neon under a body of grime;

A never-ending train of torment races past as cloaking fumes veil the sunlight.

No break in the pace or pattern of their journey;  

The horses ears pricked forward in anticipation but eyes lowered from the present.

He draws a hand-painted and beloved wagon, and carries a committed master aboard;

No whip, no anger.  Both driving in memoriam for redemption not profit.

The pair turn off the wide road towards their familiar berth;

As fields melt into brick and steel, the familiar cries and laughter of farm labour fade with each milestone passed.

The choke of traffic rises, and each breath thickened with smoke and angst for the awake,

Modernity pauses at each red light as man and horse continue their relentless journey.

Behind them the ghosts of waste and decay stand dancing in their wake,

Where there was once joy and colour now but shades of desperation.

The couple pause where a stone trough once sat but now beset by misshapen and dulled plastic;

Sadness descends as the afternoon ebbs.  

Notices of closures on shop windows reveal the present,

Issued by absent landlords but enacted by local agents powered by avarice, under a lace of feigned public mourning. 

In a moment the old man’s trusted hand lays firmly on his friend’s neck;

Unseen, they turn and slip away into evening, to try again tomorrow.


My Poetry

Ghost Tree

The First Fen Blow

You should look away

I have not woken 

Bottled Love

War end

A lover’s touch


Beauty of her nature 

Fierce Love

The Rat

My Moody Girl

We have met before…

You are….

Looking Up


Stare of the Moon

Holding the thread


Stone cold love

The imps are feasting

I am more than a tree

Wisbech Morning

The bleeding fields of Naseby

I did not cry

We are England

Curtain Call

Do not pity the English

Turning Left

Prosperity of Evil

Bang Up

“The Return of Black Shuck”

“I saw You” by Dean Reeves

“Bring the wind” by Dean Reeves

“I choose” by Dean Reeves

“Forgotten Dancer” by Dean Reeves

“Market Day” by Dean Reeves



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s