job title but you still can't
work out what they do!
A Beauty in the Storm
Storm cancels school runs
blows down sheds and fences,
topples trees.
Trampolines make a run for it!
The last remaining leaves are torn from trees.
Round and round and round they dance!
...Beautiful dances.
Trees sway,
some succumb to the wind.
Branches fall to the ground,
blocking roads,
smashing greenhouses,
littering pavements and once perfect lawns.
Making patterns on the ground.
...Beautiful patterns.
Boats tucked up in harbours tug vigorously at moorings.
Huge waves crash over breakwaters.
In the spray,
through the weak watery light,
the sunlight creates rainbows.
...Beautiful rainbows.
A beauty in the storm.
I Think Too Much is Heaped on The Shoulders of The Weekend
I think too much is heaped on the shoulders of the weekend.
It has to refresh our bodies,
and our minds.
It has things it must wash and things it needs to mend.
Gardens must be tended and DIY must be completed.
It must facilitate our entertainment.
It must arrange a match,
the odd pint,
a late night clubbing,
a meal out.
It needs to sort us out some time with the family mates and partners.
We need it to shop for our food,
and everything else we need.
We need it to arrange a film for us,
and find time for a hobby!
Maybe we could buy a car,
move house,
bury Grandad,
walk to China,
escape from Alcatraz,
invent a machine,
fly like a bird,
swim like a fish across the oceans,
hanglide from mountain tops like an eagle,
or fly to the moon!
...I think too much is heaped on the shoulders of the weekend!
An Observation. The Taxi Driver, A Builder and an Old Man
A taxi driver raises an eyebrow and nods a knowing smile towards a builder in the morning Costa queue.
They think the old man,
currently at the coffee machine,
is taking ages.
This briefly creates a 'bromance',
like an association between species,
the Taxi driver and the builder,
a connection across the trades.
The old man,
oblivious to the goings on behind him,
picks up his coffee and goes to pay.
The taxi driver addresses the machine,
the builder moves up the queue waiting his turn,
and the brief 'bromance' ends.
Fog
I look.
I look from my window at a blanket of fog which now covers the field.
A haunting fog.
A haunting fog which drifts through winter trees.
A fog of mystical shapes.
Mystical shapes which strip the early morning of all its sunlight.
I look.
I look but the day and all its references have have been taken from me.
All is now still,
a kind of dark settles all around me.
The birds have fallen silent.
All is cold,
cold,
cold.
Headlights of cars run along the lane.
Headlights like the eyes of trapped souls lost in a fog,
as if...
as if running back and forth trying to find some way out of an eternal,
eternal dammed incar-cer-ation.
I briefly,
briefly look away then,
then I look back...
I look back,
but the fog has all gone and all is normal,
normal once more!
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