Under The Cold Eiderdown



It’s a quarter to eight and the hedge trimmer’s goin’
cos those privets just have to be neat
She rolls and turns over to face the woodchip
as the sound of the blades wake the street
She slips into slumber whilst catching a drift
as a bang cuts short her lie in
He’s gone through the wire and grits his teeth under breath
let the marital silence begin
It’s a quarter to twelve and her hands warm her pockets
of her old and worn housecoat
And as they pass like ships in the night on the landing
she feels so cold and alone
Outside the sun is shining but inside there it rains
on a circumstance made man and wife
Not a glance exchanged or a single word spoken
as they lose another day in their life
It’s a quarter to six and there’s no appreciation
for the dinner she made hours ago
She holds on to her memories of music and dancing
he holds his ashtray and remote
It’s a quarter to ten he shuts down the tele
she can hear every crack in his frown
They head on up the stairs and meet for one last time
in the dark under the cold eiderdown.


© JB Barrington – Words Escape Me 2011




About JB Barrington

The words & verse of JB Barrington; performance poet from Salford. Lovely stuff, touches heart strings and the odd raw nerve - Johnny Vegas Great poems; great delivery - Terry Christian A warm charm, a rapier wit and a real appreciation of words - Louder Than War
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