6 thoughts on “Writing prompt 3: boots”

  1. THE HOLE IN LENIN’S BOOT by Brecht: my words

    You who are making the standing figure of Lenin
    Twenty metres high on the Palace of Trade Unions!
    Don’t forget that his boot
    Has a well-attested hole in it, the mark of poverty.
    I gather it is visible
    From the west, home to many who will
    Recognise Lenin, by this hole in his boot,
    As one of their own.

  2. LEMON SHERBET
    My Dad’s boots were big and heavy,
    Black bright with coal dust,
    Clogged up on the leather laces,
    Solid in the cleats of the soles
    He walked on.
    ‘Threepence,’ he said, ‘to anyone
    Who will clean them.’
    There were no takers.
    Until I got to thinking
    About a crinkly paper bag
    Full of lemon sherbets,
    Fizzing on my tongue.
    ©2020 Gwen Grant

  3. The river parkway

    Cars parked
    at the pedestrian entrance
    and its long wall of fence

    i tipped the bike up
    on end
    the handlebars passed over

    the frame slipped thru,
    people in pairs with dogs
    or walking around alone

    like the open grounds
    of a refugee camp
    while i pedaled on

    down to the beach
    its overturned tables
    and clumps of dirt

    once
    groomed lines of sand
    that held your footprint

    where we thought
    we’d walk forever
    hand in hand

    (Ken Smith)

  4. Hanging Up Your Boots

    Drop down a division if you must
    to play for as long as you can. The first yard’s
    in the head, they say. Or finish expertly
    at the top of your game, a legend,
    it’s how we remember you best.
    Go either way, but prepared, touch-tight,
    for that sudden change of direction –

    the future’s a 10, unpredictable –
    now every day is a weekday afternoon
    after training, none a Tuesday night
    in spring, floodlit green, European, the air
    electric as pace, noisy as hell, thousands
    singing your name from the old stands.

    This physical hit this rush in the vein,
    pumped up, a pre-match tracklist
    banging in your ears, you walk out
    onto the pitch, wait, with your teammates,
    for the photographs, anthems, a moment

    that is nothing like driving the Aston
    into a wall, pie-eyed, at three in the morning,
    gambling all evening, podcast or punditry.
    Yes play like a child, the one with Plan B.

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