Always, And Forever

I came upon a love-seat

From the year MM

Here in the graveyard

I sat to look at the yew trees

From the year M

Beside me the shadow

Whose tree bears the pellets

For my peashooter

Back in the day

When boys would be boys

Long before I had set out

In search of silence

Or at least the sort found

By tall, thin grasses

Swaying in the summer breeze

Behind me the canal

And the footpath

Leading to the woods

Where more adventurous sorts

Have built a shelter

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As Good As It Gets

There are butterflies

And dragonflies

And ducks

Washing themselves

In the calm canal

There are squealing pigs

Being fattened for the slaughter

There are machinery noises

As there were in my days

At Hepworth Iron

There are tall grasses

And cow parsley by the dozen

There are those tiny wasps

What do they call them

Yes, hornets, that’s the one

I can hear the pigeons going

But they are here as well

Also I am waiting

For the disharmonious elevator

To stop its tuneless whirring

Of course we have blue skies

Above the diamond jubilee

Two-seat lover’s bench

In the graveyard, beside

The Louth canal, on its way to the sea

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Not Waving But Calling

Summer frocks

And slimline dresses

Tanning skin

As ice-cream refreshes

Flailing cotton

With mischief distresses

Turning thin

Which increasingly impresses

Bathing costume

Combined caresses

Thoughts within

Her mind reassesses

In the rampant sea

A wave distresses

Her body spins

And hope forgets us

Back on land

Where time refreshes

Step out, as

Wet T-shirt expresses

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Rancour

One item short

So another visit needed

The repeat system

Screwed up again

Why bother telling me

To call in and collect

When you already knew

Not everything was available

And don’t you dare

Blame covid or brexit

Because you and your systems

Have never really worked

Of course I know

That I should be thankful

For all of the extra walking

How else could I cope

And to be able to call in

At the coffee shop

To write this vengeful rant

Which might well be my new poetry

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Turning Into A Stroll

Is it the walk

Or is it the weir

Is it the blue sky

Or is it my 3 month reprieve

Is it the water

Flowing and splashing

Is it the sound

Of random collisions

Is it the birdsong

Or cyclists riding by

Was it Freebird

By Lynyrd Skynyrd

Then the aromas

Of nettle and blackthorn

By the new houses

Looking out over the canal

Actually it is me

My own peace and tranquillity

Only slightly disturbed

By the jet plane overhead

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