In Devon Winters There is Mud
And I am sick of scraping the boots
and washing the floors –
mud on our feet, mud on our clothes,
mud on the doormat, mud on the paths –
I’m sick of the gloop and the gulp of it,
sick of the squidge and the squelch of it
sick of watching for treachery,
sick of the slip and the slide of it.
Mud is a misery,
mud is the enemy.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Gill
McEvoy would be pleased to hear them.