Bacchus Hotel

I am the only patron
In the rather swish coffee lounge
I am somewhat intrigued
By the chrome yellow shadows
With neon blue outlines

Now I play shadow puppets
As I choose a replacement dessert
Due to the run on the syrup sponge
The room is an interior designers dream
Or nightmare, depending on your taste

The stamped distressed vegetable crate
Suggests the establishment opened in 1691
I am joined by an old man, with his even older
Greyhound, assuming that is of course
That each dog year is worth x times a human year

The waiter explains to the woman at the bar
That she ought to book her Christmas meal
Sooner rather than later; you know how it is
In the trade, everybody is a salesman, everyone
Wants to make their mark, in full on sodium

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Hutoft Car Terrace

No parking
Between 10PM and 6AM

To the South
At some distance
A promenade of lights
With the windmill's red lights
On an higher elevation

To the East (straight ahead)
A grey beach
A Black sea
A blacker sky
Above the horizon

To the North
The glow you might be due
From Gods own County
Other than that
Nothing given

Nothing, as well you might expect

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Some Words Don’t Go Away

In the words of John and Paul
And all of those
Who chose not to hear

In the sense of lost control
As we presuppose
There is indeed a life of fear

If the day should fill your soul
Set fair to fully oppose
That which could easy disappear

There, with troops and wherewithal
An idyll to compose
To see the sea, so far, so clear

Yet doubt you might, and doubt is all
In the ability to foreclose
On all that’s wrong, and all that’s nowhere near

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Lost, Not Found

I retrace my steps
Perhaps
If I had bought a blue pencil
Or an orange pencil
Then the lost cap
Would have been easier to spot

I will buy a blue pencil
Or orange
Or whatever bright colour they have in stock
I won’t buy another black one
That would only seem to compound the error

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Lost And Found

I slow down
In search of my pencil cap
I hear the singular warbler

I hear
And then see
Another aeroplane

I hear
But don’t see
The cars on the coast road

This is a well trod path
One day a little child
May come across my pencil cap

And may ask its parents
What sort of person
Might have left this here

The child’s parent
If mindful, and imaginative
May tell a story

Of the old man, from far away
Who came here one day in winter
To write, and take photographs

In his excitement, also due to
His inability to do two things at once
He lost the pencil cap

And no matter how slowly
He walked the muddy path
The cap was not found, until today

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