Past tents; A poem by Alan Whitfield


Past tents

Fabric fear black skies near.
Dropping like a million pins.
Itching at silence.
How many rain drops fall in an hour.

Tried and testing.
Once again internal questioning.
Self confidant and perfect.
Is it really worth it.

Mental pictures bully the mind.
Self directed over complicated.
Soul assassinated festive time

Just the one(ce).



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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