Most days I write a 'Daily Quordle Poem', but there are occasions when I get behind. Usually this is only a day or two, but on the 1st September I found myself five days behind due to various circumstances.
The result was I did a catch-up poem of five stanzas, each one using the Quordle words in order, as they'd appeared over the five days. Surprisingly, an interesting little story was hinted at as I worked at using the various words as starting points.
On the
JETTY they’re selling tubs of
PESTO, deep in its green as a
PRUNE is deep in red and brown, or a
TAWNY lion yellow in its yellowness.
The
BOOTH announces, ‘Former Welterweight
CHAMP.’ His wife, a few feet away, in heels that
CLACK across the weatherworn boards,
PIVOTs as I say, ‘Done with the boxing then?’
A
BRIEF glance, under heaviest eyebrows. A
LEASH, self-imposed, holds back comments. His
BASAL mode’s controlled; he keeps himself from
SMEARs against his former occupation.
But
BLUNT is his wife’s middle name. No
SHADY subtleties of speech here. She
STOKEs the constant fires of anger: one
VOWEL is enough to tell me her temper.
The
ALLOY of ferocious mixed with self-restraint, I guess, gives
FIBRE to their marriage, keeps them sane. He’s
FORTY, at a guess, but her age I can’t gauge. The
PAINT of makeup could
hide anything from twenty-five to fifty.
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