On a joy of country living. (Hasten to add, I love badgers.)
Badger besets blooms
Best buds, big, brightest blossoms
Battered by Brock
The hills are made invisible by an evening mist.
Against this a kettle of five hawks,
three red kites and two buzzards,
spiral in the diffused golden light,
unhurried, synchronised, perfect.
It is a moment of poetry,
of passion and perfection
that I am privileged to witness.
On witnessing a people drama …
Alone with her thoughts
she stares into her teacup.
Waitress walks over
So, what happens next?
She gets up to leave.
She stays and cries.
She stays and laughs.
She orders another tea.
The waitress throws her out.
The waitress sits down.
They leave together.
She’s joined by …
(a small nonsense)
In a small blue box
Deep in my corner cupboard
Sits a small, aged, marzipan frog
Sometimes, in moments of distraction
or caustic meditation
I dream which of my children
will inherit this prize.
It is a threat
disturbing their waking hours.
( an observation of my contemporaries, now I hate catching myself whistling)
Once the essence of romance,
now reduced to shadowing his wife
around charity shops and supermarkets,
his drawn cheeks constantly puckered with
that revolting suck, blow, tuneless
whistling that declares a man has entered his dotage,
devoid of the hope of passion
and surrendered to banality.
‘How does he love me?
With adoration, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love,
with sighs of fire.’