Surroundings by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry


A dark, damp Sunday evening,
it’s not raining now, but my
coat and shoes still feel soggy
from earlier. These dark nights
may have only just kicked in
for this year, but somehow it
feels like summer was just a
two minute ad break between
the programmes of darkness.
I roll, then light a cigarette, at
least it’s dry and I’m able to do  that. I blow out the smoke to
temporarily blur my view of
deep purple sky, dark green  grass, and the ugly grey  concrete of pavement and  road. Never believe people  who’ll tell you that your  surroundings don’t influence  the way that you feel.
I feel like;
deep purple,
dark green, and
ugly, ugly grey.