By: Gawain Towler
About The Poem
Walking through various anonymous new-build, steel-shiny estates in the January lockdown, I could only think of escaping to Dorset.
I hate those little urban dogs,
I hate their little urban feet,
I hate their little chi-chi togs,
And piles of shit upon the street.
Just forget those simpering faces,
With, “Come here Choux” and rainbow laces.
Give me a beast and open spaces,
Muddy boots and hidden places.
What I need is Blackmore’s hedges,
Deep-set lanes, rustling sedges,
Windblown hills and fog-draped Vale,
Homely pub and a pint of ale
Do you have poem you would like to feature? Submit it here