An idea tossed into the air
Gathered momentum,
With spring spurred action,
Test flight looked good,
Filling on form,
Inspection passed,
Bright eyed and open mouthed
The family assembled,
All systems go,
Out of the frying pan
Into the heat
Of the Antipodean summer.
For my funkypancake friend and his family who will know what this is all about.
These are rare evenings.
It’s still, and I’m sat outside the pub
In shorts and shirt sleeves.
The trees are motionless but
Swallows soar and swoop,
Busying themselves,
Though I suspect
Most insects have gone to bed.
I can hear more birds
Talking in the trees.
A murmur emanates from within
And the lights have come on outside
But there is plenty time before the dark dark.
A hairless non stop talker recounts his life
As a musician to a red faced resident,
Listening for the price of a pint.
Cars pass by on the road outside the pub
And occasionally one pulls in.
A Land Rover that leaves its boot open
To cool the dog inside, presumably.
A man leans against his van,
Doesn’t want a drink
But talks on his mobile phone.
The blue sky deepens
A contrast cut
By the occasional cloud, white.
Through the window diners dine
And drinkers cluster round the bar.
The red face drives home!
Geese flypast and land.
there it hung, motionless,
in suspended animation way beyond the back garden fence.
it looked like a ladybird,
red with black spots, though they might have been blue,
I couldn’t really tell from a distance.
it appeared as the evening settled down,
still light, though the trees had started to look like cut outs.
I expected it to come closer,
because of the direction of the wind,
but it seemed to be going further away.
then I realised it was probably landing.
it began to sink slowly
leaving me to guess exactly where it went down,
disappearing out of sight.
I put a log on the barbecue
turning it into a firepit and providing an alternative distraction.
Girls they change, don’t ask me how,
No ask me,
They get an inner glow,
A beauty that transcends beauty,
Succoured by expectation.
Signatures they practice, flourishes that match
A new style,
Brought about by change,
Lifting life to a new high,
Moving on apace.
A suitable proposition, a satisfied Miss Smith,
Happiness in the shape of Mrs Duckworth.
LaserBlasted tonight.
Death to all Y6s.
Shattered again – wish the term was over.
Fear is power I believe – and I wish I had a fist of it now.
Kids worn out too but keeping them happy watching the Tour.
Never used to drink beer during the week, maybe that will be a 2010 revolution.
Doubt it.
Watching ‘Double X’ – really quite good.
Reds won tonight.: My team of course.
I’m here, looking at the trees.
They look so tired after a day of pounding.
The sun (I see) is setting in the west and the clouds are scooting wildly across the tops of the ash and elder.
Who would travel on a Monday after such a skirmish?
Those who travel hopefully I suppose.
Short of Juan next week but pretty complete otherwise until the weekend when W leaves to tend to sick father.
In primary now – not the Presidential. Tired beyond belief. Looking forward to seeing Freya’s big almost sister. So is she.
Good luck with the weather – we now call it surfing (new boat).
See you soon!
the heavy typer
sits next to me on the train,
a corporate animal
tied to his laptop,
reminding me of
someone playing
chopsticks on the piano.
engrossed in his email
he blows dust off his keyboard
and stares intently at the screen.
it half interests me
to know what he is typing
but it is bound to be boring.
he wears a blue uniform
blue suit, stripy blue shirt
and a striped pink and blue tie.
not really my kind of guy.
opposite him
a chap in his early fifties
looks far more relaxed
in an open necked white shirt
and sports jacket.
without being able to see
he is probably surfing.
his breakfast consisted
of a hot chocolate
and a Twix chocolate bar
he will be tired by the time
we get to London.
he is already yawning.
his young chum
with gelled, greying hair,
is in a dark grey pinstripe suit
and grey shirt.
he reads a novel
and says nothing
for the whole journey.
hot and tired
the sun beats me down,
no violence
but for certain
no benevolence
and I need all defences.
I hat-share with another
of less foresight,
eyesight cooled by new shades,
tongue licked by ice cream,
cardboard cup of weakly satisfying tea.
noise, excitement, awe,
strikes, soars, swoops,
cameras click and binoculars pan,
babies cry and throw plastic bottles,
tattooed parents sip cold beer
and polystyrene packaged chips with sausages
are consumed out of duty to a tradition
best reserved for windswept seaside towns in March.
homeward we queue and complain
but there is no one to listen.
‘What?’
‘No:’
‘Pardon’.
Sit still. Stop swinging on the chair,
Playing with the paper/pens/pencils/other students’ education.
OUT! You really didn’t need to punch Alex twice in the face, once was adequate.
You’re acting like you are in Year 2, maybe the American system should be trialled here.
Where do they get the language from?
The kids do like the US but don’t have a clue really.
An island of sadness within an Island nation.
This is the new school.
Primary, like the healthcare.
Basic and scary.
When asked what it’s like to be fifty,
Kim replied that it feels rather nifty,
For to party is fun,
When all’s said and done,
Though the time has gone by rather swiftly.
bright primary colours float across the surface,
small boats under an endless blue sky,
the water, shimmering
as the hottest day of the year
drives me into the pleasant shade above the lake.
blackhead gulls find energy,
absorbed from the afternoon heat
and reeds, where week old ducklings hide
and dragonflies hover,
sway gently at the waters edge.
dry onlookers avoid the drip of wet clothes
of self drenched, red faced children
dazzled eyes squinting in the high sun,
tongues, in search of cool refrigeration,
and parent towelled cosset.
Twas only when he turned eighteen,
That Ben was quite oft to be seen,
In the Star and the Vic,
And the Strugs and the Wig,
And a number of pubs in between.
As I walked out to the Morning Star
The Cathedral cast its mark,
Its lowering shadows enveloped the pub
And the sky grew unusually dark.
The Church, the beacon, was not yet lit
Too soon to call it night,
Though its luminous power would later shine forth
By the trick of electric light.
Little children come out to play,
In the meadow as bright as day.
The stream runs by all the while,
It’s Chipping Norton’s River Nile.
Derek the duck swims along,
Whilst the blackbird sings his joyful song.
Derek is an agile swimmer,
Then a farmer shoots him for his dinner.
He takes him back to Mrs Farmer,
Who looks distinctly like a llama.
She puts it in the boiling pot,
The sun is shining, she’s really hot.
She openeth the window and looks at the grass,
Whilst Farmer Giles slaps her ass.
Who works the field pulling carts by day,
And sleepeth at night, betwixt horse and hay.
Norfolk