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