Moss
Moss and
Lichen
All over the tree
Wildlife
Ponds neglected
Neglected
By the likes of you and me
September Sunday wetlands
Wetlands for the lonely
The quiet
And the outlandishly free
One stick per person
To prod, prod
To release the inquisitive
Inside of you and me
There will just be a wait
The first words she uttered
Just like Loudon’s grand-daughter
When hat, that’s what she muttered
And the Birmingham accents
Are already wingeing, in the way
That only they can, and do
Portents of black country grey
Later summer in the Scillies
Sun, sand, sea and sea
Late autumn with the hillbillies
Scornful of those living simply to be
Yesterday the wedding party
Today the hangover service
All the cakes are taken
Except a muffin to purchase
Sunday morning showers
Will the cricket match resume
Vases of flamboyant flowers
The bunting flaps in tune
History is as history is
So another one departs us
We fawn and kneel to kiss
In life of life we trust
The rain is falling
It has fallen through the night
Apparently
We cannot do anything about it
Except of course
To sit in the drawing room and write
Or read about the Italian
Who built this house
Before it became a hotel
The single chandelier
Casts its light
Down the pale green walls
A reminder of the olive groves of Sicily
And the romance which brought him here
To the Isles of Scilly
Looking
Out to sea
From your
Private place
Between two houses
Behind a street lamp
And beneath
A satellite dish
Do they work anymore
Do wedding guests
Still dance
To Dancing Queen
On a Saturday afternoon
At the beginning
Of the second week
Of September…
