The real day zero
There is nothing that I haven't written
Nothing that I have left unsaid
In this place of the last lines
Where the departure words are read
Long coats, smart blazers, and medals
Car parks, and overflow car parks
Roads laid out in the geometric style
For the cortège and the heralds
Say goodbye, and drive away, or fly
Off to the new life; beyond, yes beyond
The flags, and the platoons, the leader
Of the band in his striped tie
A military man, an Air Force man
All grey, and crimson, and royal blue
Laughter, and bonhomie, and o what's new
This is the real day zero, and for today we stand
Saturday, 6 January 2018
Friday, 5 January 2018
BBB Poem 55
Mushroom, and tarragon soup
Christopher what's come over you
Is it the Suffolk sea air
That is getting near to your inner truth
On the pier at Southwold
Above the waving waves
That travel from the Nuclear power station
To way beyond the newly built sea defences
All pretence of summer is indefensible
Under the grey-black, black-grey skies
All thoughts of English holidays reprehensible
For teenagers who share their lover’s cries
Christopher what's come over you
Is it the Suffolk sea air
That is getting near to your inner truth
On the pier at Southwold
Above the waving waves
That travel from the Nuclear power station
To way beyond the newly built sea defences
All pretence of summer is indefensible
Under the grey-black, black-grey skies
All thoughts of English holidays reprehensible
For teenagers who share their lover’s cries
Thursday, 4 January 2018
BBB Poem 54
Beside the seaside
Throwing pebbles off the beach
A perfect sea
Or at least so I am told
By an oldish lady
Throwing pebbles at a tin can
The quiet then snapped
By the seventh wave landing
With a reasonably ubiquitous crash
Beside the seaside
Squashing pebbles into our bottoms
A vast sea
Or at least I do believe so
With a one hundred and sixty
Degree horizon
The delineation marked
By the last green line of darkness
And the first sky blue of sky
Throwing pebbles off the beach
A perfect sea
Or at least so I am told
By an oldish lady
Throwing pebbles at a tin can
The quiet then snapped
By the seventh wave landing
With a reasonably ubiquitous crash
Beside the seaside
Squashing pebbles into our bottoms
A vast sea
Or at least I do believe so
With a one hundred and sixty
Degree horizon
The delineation marked
By the last green line of darkness
And the first sky blue of sky
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Wednesday, 3 January 2018
BBB Poem 53
September in the sunshine
Breakfast in the bay
A pavement cafe actually
Beside a crying child's affray
Why not add a rack of sourdough toast
Why not make the most
Of what the day has to offer
Of what the mind might proffer
Breakfast in the bay
A pavement cafe actually
Beside a crying child's affray
Why not add a rack of sourdough toast
Why not make the most
Of what the day has to offer
Of what the mind might proffer
Tuesday, 2 January 2018
BBB Poem 52
The beachcombers are by the sculpture
Metal detectors in their hands
I walk across the pebbles to the sculpture
Not though to the sound of marching bands
It's what I've heard called a shingle beach
Where you have to walk in single file
It's not safe to be caught coyly holding hands
Rather Plus-Fours could be your chosen style
They'd have them in the gentleman's outfitters
And, to be honest, you'd look rather grand
What with the Barbour, and the Burberry
And the shooting stick with which to stand
Metal detectors in their hands
I walk across the pebbles to the sculpture
Not though to the sound of marching bands
It's what I've heard called a shingle beach
Where you have to walk in single file
It's not safe to be caught coyly holding hands
Rather Plus-Fours could be your chosen style
They'd have them in the gentleman's outfitters
And, to be honest, you'd look rather grand
What with the Barbour, and the Burberry
And the shooting stick with which to stand
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