Lift Up For The County

Today is departure day

To the station

To the airport

To the car

To home

But first the check-out

Then the breakfast

Then, so I am told

We will walk

Carrying our cases to the station

Past the gallery

Where we saw Giorgio Morandi

Or at least his works

For his quiet life

Is well and truly over

That I

A country boy from Yorkshire

Should talk of such

On the very day that a one time near neighbour

Is crowned Poet Laureate

Although the truth is

That he has acquired

A great deal of sophistication

Since writing of those moon-raker

Nights and days

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Lavish Night Ahead

Mass is done for the day

The dancers

Dance their welcome kisses

The soundcheck voice

Sings The Great Pretender

Mass

In the small chapel

For no more than a dozen

In this city of a million souls

Shame on you, the non-believers

Non-believers such as I

Non-believers such as you

Who keep this religion alive

By paying with hard cash for our curiosity

By paying with hard cash for our intrigue

For the faith in the self

Is not ever without doubt

However close the silence

The Kula Shaker is always Govinda

While the mouse-mat, it always squeals

Caught once more

By the soprano

Caught once more

By those angels of the gods

Who continue to sing their welcome

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Bit Of A Do

There is Jesus on a cross

As though an advertisement

For LNER

Or, as it used to be known INRI

Either way

It was Bartolomeo Di Fruosino

Who got the hospital’s commission

Sometime around 1411

This church is not my church

This church is way too sombre

Take me to the bullfights

To drink with you my hombre

Tonight is the night

Of the beautiful people

The great and the good

Are coming to town

It is the feeding

Of the five-thousand

Under chandeliers

And candlelight

Soon the carriages will arrive

For now the final, make-over, make-up

Is being applied, the final quiff

Is being so so carefully quiffed

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David’s Place

The lady from Kilkenny

The sisters from Argyle

Supporting casts for David

In a 19th century kind of style

Made in the plaster of Paris

Mannerist artists meanwhile

Whose works are way less revered

Are turned out by the city mile

From the Annunciation by Allori Alessandro

For those who knew of him by his smile

He gave his light to the Earl of Derby

To capture Vesuvius with his guile

There is a cross, a cross, a cross

Crosses for all those Jesus people who redial

There are blacks, reds, golds and marble

With granite and slate for the stronger willed denial

If you remember Byzantium

Haloes, and daggers, for those erstwhile

Followers of the Benedictines

As K suggested, I do write the most enduring bile

The first real touch of colour

A coronation, where angels and saints step in file

It is an unfinished work

Either that, or he came across the consort’s child

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Leaving…

Now I am in Piazza della Repubblica

Where you search for a leather purse

All of the art of the aficionados

Is left behind for the day

Yet here, in the sun of sublime summers

You return with your purchase

The cleaning is not yet complete

Unlike the caricatures

It takes longer than three minutes

But still they have made a start

The grease and grime of many years

Is washed onto the cobbled floor

Thin jeans on thinner legs

Size six becomes the average

At least for the younger people

We older folk are not quite so slim

Having to contend with the gelato

And three, or more, meals a day

The sun beats down

So we take the shade, next day

I shall continue to observe reception

For tomorrow, we too

Will be on our way, and I for one

Would like to know the protocol for departure

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