Category — winter series

It’s cold and bright in Albion tonight
Though the snow covered fields
Have little to reflect
From the greyness of the cloud laden sky.
Tonight the owl hunts in vain
As nothing else stirs,
The silence of its glide
Amplified by the hushed tones
Of the icy blanket beneath.
Trees, ghostly sentinels, patrol the hedgerows
That enclose the hunting grounds.
Smoke rises vertically,
Windless from the occasional chimney,
Whitewashed walls invisible
To all but the owl,
Which is itself seen only
By the trees and
Through the aperture of the imagination.

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Personal yet impersonal,

Grubby and soulless,

Addictive, without joy

Source of money, sometimes -

Swallow hard.

Herald of bad news,

Card swallower.

Watch your bent back

In litter-strewn streets

Of cloned city centres

All in all it’s just

Another hole in the wall.

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At arms length from other boxes

On the outskirts of town stands a box,

Poorly protected by a flimsy slat fence

A thin hedge takes the full blast of the wind

Across the bare fields and over the quarry below.

Paper walls make for little comfort

And no cats swing here though they

Lap at saucers at the exposed back door.

The cheap settee fills the room, with the TV

Which sits on its altar next to the gas fire.

The small garden patch is shaded by the shed that 

Stands large on the patio next to the rusting barbecue.

The paint peeled garage door opens into clutter

Where the car seldom fits,

Idling instead on the tarmac on the front drive.

The local pub survives, just,

Its new brick blandness mixed with gassy beer

And a desperately bored clientele.

Frozen food, fried, microwaved, boiled.

Choiceless, characterless, tasteless.

The box, uninspiring, the bulldozed architecture

Of  (optimistically) a 100 years hence,

Thrown together, built with hopes and dreams,

Stands on the outskirts of town

An arms length from other boxes.

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It’s cold, wet and miserable.

We are back to the normal British winter.

One or two smiles break the gloom

At Kings Cross station

But they are the exception.

People don’t smile in London.

The waiting room is warm and quiet.

The cleaner talks to the attendant,

With almost a smile!

An effort, forced through the boredom,

After ten minutes collecting

Three empty coffee cups.

I tap away on my laptop.

A woman brushes her eyelashes,

Another eats a sandwich

And some read newspapers,

But most just stare blankly,

Waiting…

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It’s freezing point
On the tennis court
Though the action is hot.

Vestigial muscles rediscovered,
Youthful opposition forces the pace,
Balls blaze a trail in the crisp January morning.

Breath hangs in the air,
The score hangs in the balance,
Youth triumphs and handshakes firm.

Finally the snow arrives.
Small flakes drift across the court
Satisfying our romantic sporting spirits.

We retire to Starbucks
For hot chocolate with a warm glow,
Marshmallows and whipped cream.

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Six sorry looking taxis standing in a rank

Five days to go but

Only four small turkeys left at the butchers.

Three ducks scooting across the water, surely cold.

Two bag laden Christmas shoppers, heads bowed into the drizzle

A grey December day, never in sight of the sun

And there’s the traffic, why do they do it?

There is really only one place to be

And that is at home in front of the fire

The cards are dispatched, logs piled up by the back door

Plenty of time yet to get the big shop done,

Turkey ordered and a couple of parties to come.

The chink of glasses and the cheery sounds

Open that bottle of malt and pass it round

Mince pies smell of brandy

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I sit in the window enjoying breakfast at my leisure,

Taking in the traffic on the pavement outside.

It is cold out there and

The anonymous scurriers are

Wrapped up against the biting December wind.

They have been up early to get there

Though I am now just sitting down to start the day.

Full English, tea and toast and then

I leave the warmth of the hotel and venture forth

Looking for my destination,

Unsure of my options.

Heading for Victoria Station I swim against the flow of office fodder,

Miserable looking people subjected daily to discomforts of the commute,

Crushed into compartments,

Standing within sweat smell of strangers

Trapped on the treadmill of the city.

Trapped.

I take the taxi option.

It is the only one available

As the voluntary queue for compression

On the Underground looks longer than the taxi rank.

A good meeting and later I do take the tube

For a lunchtime get together.

Plenty of time to people-watch.

A mother speaks Spanish to two young girls

Who reply in both Spanish and English

As they see fit, lucky girls.

Otherwise few speak.

A  busker enters the compartment

Complete with bedroll and survival gear.

Tattooed, with shorts and worn leather gaiters

He entertains poorly with a penny whistle.

The carriage ignores him with a practised survival instinct.

But I give him a pound as I leave at the next stop

Poor pickings, and all he got.

Homeward bound

On the train a phone sings out “swing low sweet chariot”

And a voice answers “hello?”

Others doze or are sucked into their laptops,

There is little talk as the chosen ones

Head home after a long day at their machines.

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Rusting metal mingles with rubber, glass and orange plastic.

Decay, a by-product of self-destructing self-worship.

The smell of oil and dirt, torn leather and plastic,

Badges of affectation, discarded on urban wastelands

And picked over by the poor.

Born of pretension,

A contempt-venting urban behemoth and

Wreaker of environmental carnage.

Gas guzzling yank tank,

Now an out of favour status symbol,

Dying in ignominious obscurity

Driven out of existence…

The Chelsea Tractor, RIP, 2008.

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