Creating Past Creations

Saturday morning

Health spa

Then golf club for breakfast

No sea view

Or walkers on the promenade

Instead cars, cars of every kind

A cup of top quality coffee

Good, strong, and black

With an authentic Rombouts biscuit

Next time I might ask

For two shots of espresso

Just to push the boat out so to speak

What with booze cruise boats

Being one topic of conversation

With the southern chap, back in the spa

Free Lunch

There once was a man

Let’s call him John shall we

He always chose to stay

In budget class accommodation

There was also another man

Let’s call him Christopher for now

Quiet, refined, or luxury class

Was his choice for accommodation

What mattered to John

When making his choices was

Did they have internet

And did they do early breakfast, of any kind

Christopher also had his demands

Did they have a spa, with a sauna

Could he get an a la carte evening meal

How late did they serve full English breakfast

John was on a higher pay scale

Yet he had never reviewed, or tested

The expenses allowance for staying away

Something which Christopher had done

For the whole of his working life

A Blank Nostalgia

The Koshi bells tinkle

The lawns are continuously mown

This is the August Bank Holiday

At some place called home

The long-handled brush

Fishes out the algae

From the overgrown pond

As Red Admiral butterflies drift by

Next doors apple tree is burgeoning

With this years bumper crop

As is Peter’s pear tree

As well as his ‘reach for the sky’ white roses

The giant bee lands momentarily

But immediately leaves the bush

To fly off across the garden

The poet’s art

Is conjuring up images

Of those places he can’t go to anymore

We Are, All The Same

In this street

Of semi-detached houses

Where the makeover

Is the makeover for everyone

In this summer breeze

Of late August Bank Holiday

Where the warm sunshine

Is the warm sunshine for everyone

Across the main road

Into the small, neat café

where a child is named

Named to become everyone

Tight grey jeans

Hips rocking, side to side

An old footballer walks

Walks for everyone

Balance

That this day I should wake

To feel like doing nothing at all

More to the point

That I should feel altogether capable

Of doing absolutely nothing at all

And here we are, at lunchtime

Still with the confidence, and desire

To do nothing, nothing whatsoever

Meanwhile their scoreboard

Ticks along nicely

Mine, in sublime contrast

Remains perfectly still

And so it goes, on, and on

A full afternoon of doing nothing at all

But, can I make it past tea

Does eating afternoon tea, or dinner, count

As doing nothing at all

Then what of the evening

Watching Nordic Murders

On ALL4 with Walter Presents

I would say, most definitely doing nothing

Indeed going perfectly nowhere at all