This is a prose piece… it just has a structure where there are no paragraphs, not a poem at all. Just a story… with less words… no paragraphs and a bit more fluffier stuff in it. Definitely not a poem. Doesn’t even rhyme!
Down the road we trudged,
July burning into our backs
As the sun flamed hot.
Sent out for “pop” from the shops
A crisp one-pound note clutched,
Its green ink bright against Michael’s hand
Folded and ready to be exchanged.
Crossing Spen Lane, busy with traffic
Looking this way and that
Thoughts spoken about the liquid wanted.
“Lemonade, cream soda, maybe Tizer”
Michael had the money, so Michael chose.
The glass bottle sparkled with luminescence
An orange corona of Irn Bru shining bright,
Its colour painting the pavement in abstract.
As we climbed back up the hill
Legs trudging against gravity.
A ball of ice whizzed by
Hitting Michael, exploding in crystalline shrapnel
Showering us with snow.
Shock registered plastered on his face,
Ice In High Summer!
We could hear the laughter
And see the freezer being defrosted outside
Mum and dad rolling another ice ball,
Aiming at us again!