The one-time communal benches
Are now overgrown
There are signs of a fire
Scorched earth, black ashes
It was, back then, a place for friends
Conversations, discussions
Likely over a glass or two of wine
With slowly-smoked cigarettes
Time, as they say, moves on
Lanes, and pathways which once
Took us to the places we needed
To go to, are now here no more
Wednesday 3 October 2018
Tuesday 2 October 2018
Noise Champion
Pigeons, crows, flies
Nature in all its glory
Trees, in for the long stretch
Ivy, as ever, running wild
The helicopter takes first prize
Did it’s inventor ever envisage
That it would make
Such a goddam racket
Thankfully the skies
Are not so crowded
The machine moves out of sight
As I return from my rant
Nature in all its glory
Trees, in for the long stretch
Ivy, as ever, running wild
The helicopter takes first prize
Did it’s inventor ever envisage
That it would make
Such a goddam racket
Thankfully the skies
Are not so crowded
The machine moves out of sight
As I return from my rant
Monday 1 October 2018
Still Noise
The slightest, quietest
Of overheard conversation
Yet you do feel the presence
You are not alone here
You hear the aeroplane
Even though you do not see it
You are aware of highways
And shops in the town
This isn’t why you came
But, always there are distractions
Of overheard conversation
Yet you do feel the presence
You are not alone here
You hear the aeroplane
Even though you do not see it
You are aware of highways
And shops in the town
This isn’t why you came
But, always there are distractions
Sunday 30 September 2018
Constructs
Yet someone built this
Somebody took enough care
To dig out a French drain
And fill it with shingle
Somebody painted the cladding
In Yves Klein blue
Perhaps to give
The place an international feel
An artist’s workplace
It would seem to say
Not a dwelling for lemonade
Or cakes, or croquet on the lawn
Somebody took enough care
To dig out a French drain
And fill it with shingle
Somebody painted the cladding
In Yves Klein blue
Perhaps to give
The place an international feel
An artist’s workplace
It would seem to say
Not a dwelling for lemonade
Or cakes, or croquet on the lawn
Saturday 29 September 2018
Found
I came upon a blue hut
And sat beneath its window
Upon this slice of a log
A Potter’s studio
Or a writer's place of solitude
With a stand-up desk
Outdoors the grass is untended
A roll of chicken wire
Lays moribund, in the centre
Of the five metres square patch
Of rural roughness, on its way back
To nature, freed of mankind's nurture
And sat beneath its window
Upon this slice of a log
A Potter’s studio
Or a writer's place of solitude
With a stand-up desk
Outdoors the grass is untended
A roll of chicken wire
Lays moribund, in the centre
Of the five metres square patch
Of rural roughness, on its way back
To nature, freed of mankind's nurture
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