Dumbleton Walk

I don’t expect

That Dumbleton

Has too many houses

On Right Move

But the Wicket House

Would be fine for me

Now I will check out

The village

For a public house

Because the cricket club

Does not appear to be open

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Dumbleton Hall

It is easier

To be together

When we are apart

Can we feel so much more

For each other

With distance between us

The wedding guests

Those who stayed over

Are now leaving

As it was

So it will be

Or that’s how it seems

She sends him to the car

For provisions

And outdoor clothing

She sends him again

For newspapers

And Sunday supplements

She then plays hell with him

For not being steady

As she pours the wine

He does what he is told

Then apologises and apologises

No wonder. he drives a Ford

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Hiatus

I should have known

What with lambs, sheep and cattle

At rest beneath the trees

Pheasant and partridge

Also ducking for cover

Yet only a few spots

Before the dark clouds move on

And bright sunlight returns

Exposing the laughter

Of those who stayed over

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Sacristie

This, the quietest of places

Apart from the pigeons

The birdsong, the highway

And the railroad

This, the quietest of places

Is a final rest place

For the Oblate and Priest

Also for the two Sisters

Perhaps

The central mound

With its single oak

Amongst unkempt grasses

Is symbolic

But I could not say of what

For I am not a religious man

If you are able to believe me

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Sojourn

I had not expected

To see so much hawthorn

Or for it to grow so very tall

But I suppose it is alongside the river

Elsewhere the ground is bone dry

Harder than a rolled cricket wicket

With all the cracks of five days play

Battered by bat and ball, by players and weather

The willow clones

Are cloned everywhere

Their fresh shoots shooting skyward

With the freedom of gay abandon

A slow train. disappears

Beyond an horizon of yet more hawthorn

I expect that it is heading

For the parkway station

Once again I am playing truant

On this occasion from None

Which, once upon a time

I thought meant no service

How wrong could I be

How many times, so so many times

Have I let wrong lead me on

Yet here I am, alive, and writing 

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