Concrete and Pebbledash

Planted seeds today
On our ample shamble council balcony
A dash of bright, a splash of pink
Not that the fucking neighbours can see
But we can
Concrete walls see our story
Pebbledash completes the gaudy signs of glory
We may live in a council house
But we take pride in our humility
We don’t give a shit

Little mucky fingers
Grimed up, manky nails
Bathtime is a certainty
Sowing tiny seeds
In pots of pink prosperity
Maybe together we can
Take tender care
Without killing
The poor bastards
Like all the times you
Came home
With bloody nits crawling in your hair
Dedication

Maybe we can make a meadow
In our concrete world
Maybe we can make a smile
In our hostile world
Maybe we can paint away
The fucking awful grey
Maybe we can start a revolution
Chelsea flower show down our way
Folk round here don’t want no fancy
Fags, beer and a bacon butty
But don’t worry
We can pick flowers
For the dead

Little hearts don’t know they’re falling
Home is home
No matter how appalling
Pride is nothing my son knows
And I don’t keep
Copies of Good Housekeeping
On my cheap wooden table
Why should my son be constantly able
To see that children have gardens

Planted seeds today
A splash of pink, a splash of blue
Soon we’ll have a concrete garden
Take our minds away from being
Last in the queue
But beauty blossoms in
Most humble places
And all hearts need colour
Seeing rainbows breaking through
Concrete and pebbledash
Even if there’re only a few
Butterflies
We need
That shit

©2020 Sarah Drury

Ghost Town

I live in Scunthorpe, quite a deprived little town, and the town centre is almost derelict as there are so many empty shops! I wrote this poem after a walk around town yesterday. Most video content is my own.

New book – Hitting Hard

My new book, Hitting Hard, is a collection of raw, gritty poetry, written for spoken word, that depicts the realities of my working class world. From Britain’s Breadline Kids, to Skinny Culture, this collection comes from a Northern girl’s poetic heart.

But it here: http://mybook.to/hittinghard

The Flock

The Flock

It is winter
On the estate
Behold the flock of fledgling souls
Bedecked in Nike, Fila, Adidas
Or maybe Puma
If they’re strapped for cash.
They gather blindly
Like human sheep
Around their phones, their chilly bones
Whilst attitudes of futility around them creep.
In other prosperous boroughs the children sleep
But this is my estate
Where the road that’s paved in gold is just too steep.

Huddled, puddled, muddled youths
Lost already to the culture
Where knives are toys
And guns an aspiration.
And profanity is a cocky demonstration
Of rebellion.
With a gangsta culture a big inspiration
With the rap, the culture map, the deadly crap
That they live up to.
Crime a game of fuck the police
Cos life is not a cashpoint machine
And money does not come free
And neither does liberty
If the cops have their way.

And this is my estate
They flock in parks where drink
And oblivion
Ease the weight of being shit in the world
And ease the pain of a future where
The doors are already shut in their faces
And they already know they’re not going places
One road journey
And this street is a dead end.
And they are children
But they lost their childhood already.
And this is their piss poor legacy
And this is my estate.

© Sarah Drury 2019