Am I a working poet
Or a very lazy writer
Am I the one who saw it
Or simply another inscriber
Am I the truth that sends
Or the pretending aristocrat
Who fears all that defends
The status quo in his purple hat
Am I the nearly man
Or one leaning to the left
Am I with the gypsy caravan
Or once more sadly bereft
Am I the artist on tour
Or the working man’s retiree
Am I the epitome of the poor
Or seeker disguised as visionary
The road is carved
Into the hillside
Down in the valley bottom
A river flows and sparkles
People walk
Cyclists cycle
Motor bike riders gather
Perhaps for an outing
Today there is the first frost
Of my latest autumn
I take a photograph
Of the silver grasslands
Now I am in the poolside café
Listening to the joyful conversation
Of two middle aged men
In their lycra and so so special shoes
On the wall a long photograph
Of a local climbing attraction
On the counter, flapjack, of all kinds
Is the main offering of the day
Down the road
Across from the garage
Huge piles of crushed stone
Overgrown now
I remember it as a public house
The Marquis of Granby
It was a stopover
For our coach
One Friday night
On the way to Sheffield
Philip Brammall
Steve Clough
Gene Marston
Perhaps my younger brother Leslie
They were there
Making merry
Acting daft
What lads do
On the way to growing up
Bright light
On the glass window
Blue sky
Above the green trees
This is idyllic
Tell don’t show
Strong breeze
Sways branches
Clouds cross small window
Rapidly to bring dullness
You trick me by saying
Let’s call this wonder
She raised her eyebrows
Spoke in that condescending style
Which suggests she has the authority
But more than by simply being
Posture, upbringing and mental strength
Gift her this delightful sublime appearance
Next time it will be the dhal
Or rather the Maharashtran dhal
Which conforms her place presently
Men are in charge, in restaurant, shop and café
Perhaps they are personally chosen
Or maybe it is a nod to their societal background
