A poem by Alan Whitfield


Sol closes to rest
its days work done.
across a green field,
its faint rays catch,
making my mind dispatch
back from where I ride.

Summers glum,
nothing done,
and then the sun.
We longed to the sky
and finally it shone.

The gray roads climb
tarmac sheen shines.
A smell of fresh air
senses a blur.

Treed hills like green cauliflower.
The Wilson falsetto gel,
eyes  well.
I’m in a place beyond singing
it’s so hard to tell.

The Bryn decline,
towards a slate mine
twisting and weaving
shadows go bold.

oh the sun, the feeling…


Author: alanwhitfield80

Hello! I get about a bit so here about me first. I am a visual artist and poet who works within the context of fine art. My work is grounded in documentary, exploring the inner beauty of everyday life through various lens based media. Notions of nostalgia and social commentary are present, but from a definite northern working class perspective. Instinctively I exploring the townscapes of North Wales and the North West, often producing work that reflects the every day minutiae of life.

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