Albion Away

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I asked AI to have them looking up at the cathedral, but here i think they’ve just spotted a pigeon…

Albion Away

(A Tale from the 80s)

From teenage holidays in Spain,
Back when they were the latest thing,
To Saturdays on terraces,
To sing-out for our lads.
Three-nil, five-one, always winning,
Charging down the wing –
First the League, and then to conquer Europe,
Further than our dads.

Rome in April, that was special,
Even though we lost,
And Bucharest, beyond the Iron Curtain –
Why resist the pull ?
For how else could we working-class boys
Learn of santé, skål, and proost,
And countless castles and bazaars
In Bern, Zagreb, and Istanbul,

Our girlfriends likely had scant int’rest
In our fate this season,
Yet they’d sometimes come along to see
The other-worldly show.
And finding out the other fans were just like us
Was always pleasing,
Drinking with the Finns and Greeks
From Sporting Racing Dynamo.

I wasn’t sure about the title of this one – I didn’t want to suggest any specific team.  I did consider Avalon Away, but that sounded awkward.  And in the end, I can only think of two Albion teams, plus a couple of Scottish ones, and none of them one is exactly renowned for their European prowess…

Stomach-Flies

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Photo by Andy Lee on Pexels.com

Stomach-Flies

Only a dozen-ish species, I promise,
To look for around the park.
Well, maybe a few more, that we won’t spot,
Nor moths in the after-dark.
Some are only seen in the gardens,
And some underneath the trees,
And some won’t stay still long enough,
So best not sweat over these.

I tried to pay attention to you,
To ev’rything you said –
But your butterflies just flew around my head.

See, it isn’t so hard to tell them apart,
Bar the Whites – those two are close !
But ev’ryone know the Brimstones in yellow,
And Peacock will chime with most.
And the Red Admiral is red and black,
And the Holly Blue, well, that’s blue,
And the Orange Tip has bright orange tips,
And the Gatekeeper, eyespots two.

How I tried to pay attention,
To your fluttery, zig-zag crew –
The trouble was, I only had eyes for you.

The Comma looks ragged around the edge,
While the Ringlet is full of rings.
But Painted Ladies and Tortoiseshells, mind,
Have the self-same orange-black wings.
The Speckled Wood is a blur of brown –
But hang on, that’s thirteen…
Let’s leave it there, and come back noon tomorrow,
If you’re keen ?

So I’ll try to pay attention,
Give your fascination due –
While the butterflies ignore us, as they do.

Candlelight Romance

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Portrait of a Scholar in his Study by anon

Candlelight Romance

Rhea transits Saturn in the Sun of the Enlightenment,
Where gentlemen take note of nature’s law –
A lecture is attended by the lovers and the children
While a cockatiel is gasping out in awe.
The Moon picks-out the industry that sculpts the new environment
As Lunar Men are studying the bronze.
And ingots glow on Progress and on all the craft she’s skilled-in
In academies and clockwork pantheons.

Morning Glory, 3AM

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Photo by Akshaya Premjith on Pexels.com

Morning Glory, 3AM

The night is still too warm, North of twenty –
Far too warm to sleep,
And through my open window, all the scents
Are on the rise.
The Moon is full enough, the curtains open,
Birds are yet to peep,
So I slip-on a tee-shirt, vaguely hoping
I can catch a prize.
In the kitchen, dregs of last night’s wine
Are worth a swig,
Then out into the garden, free of sunshine –
Less oppressing…
A hawkmoth buzzes audibly around the trumpets –
Wow, it’s big…
Now this is how Summer should be – less a slump,
And more a blessing.

No Minors

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No Minors

Trigger warnings won’t be given –
We’re all adults here,
Our actions can’t be driven
By a narcissistic fear.

Let’s take responsibility
To toughen up our health,
And learn some raw agility
To dodge stuff for ourself.

We cannot live in cotton wool,
Demanding privilege –
Let common sense become our rule,
And step back from the edge.

No-one supervises
What may raise a gasp or tear –
For life just loves surprises,
So we must be adults here.

Loo-zers !  Loo-zers !

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Football stadium scoreboard displaying 0-0 full time score with players and spectators
AI you say ? I think you may be right…

Loo-zers !  Loo-zers !

So much raw potential that’s about to go untapped,
With so much passing, pushing, crossing, till the clock has lapsed,
But if they can’t produce a goal, their efforts go uncapped,
Chopped-down to size –
And ev’rybody cries their unnecessary tears.
So much disappointment, with so many nils, so many draws,
And have you ever noticed that the other teams with epic scores,
They’re always someone else’s team, they never can be yours ?
The anguish wails –
And ev’rybody fails for another forty years.

Settling-Down

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I’ll Sleep Tomorrow by Flooko

Settling Down

Even on a peaceful night,
I wriggle in my sheet –
From the fidget as I try to lie –
To bare my shoulder, tuck my feet –
On this side, that side, wrapped-up tight,
Or sprawled-across the seam –
Until my breath becomes a sigh
And frantic thoughts become a dream.

Industrious Insects

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Industrious Insects

The busy bees of Manchester
Are busy hoverflies –
They flit about the branches there,
In black-and-gold disguise.
Perhaps they’re all more working-class,
Republicans in tile and glass,
Who swing their clubs to earn their brass
Across the smoky skies.

They may not make the honey,
And they may not make the wax –
But they pollinate the money,
And they pay their aphid tax.
They have no queens, they have no hives,
They live their solitary lives –
But close together, each one thrives
On cotton, silk, and flax.

Corten Steel

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Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

Corten Steel

Our bridges are rusty before they are even open,
Clad in their ugliness –
They’re streaked and they’re stained with their spreadsheeted arrogance,
Shrugging with couldn’t-care-less.
So Brutalism continues its groping
In withered and leery undress,
With its surfaces tarnished and slumming advanced,
As it flakes and exudes under stress.

They really don’t look very sturdy to cope,
Whatever their builders declare –
With their rough-shod matt-faced blunt expanse
Whose corrosion hangs in the air.
They will fail.  But not because of their scope,
But because of the vision they share –
For the mind that puts rust over art and romance
Will decide obsolescence is fair.

Boring Boring Donkeys

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Photo by Carlos Reyes on Pexels.com

Boring Boring Donkeys

They couldn’t be arsed to win the game,
And neither could the other team –
They huffed and puffed, yet both ran out of steam.

The goals were few, the highlights same,
As no-one risked a probing lob –
Or knuckle down to do their bloody job.

“Winning is all that matters, though.”
They glumly would to explain,
As they stumbled through the motions once again.

They kicked-off from the very go
For penalties to come
The losers’ lottery for teams who put the hum in drum.

Were I their referee, you know,
The clock would be ignored –
I wouldn’t let them leave the pitch until a goal was scored.

The final whistle wouldn’t blow
Until they up-and play –
Until they got the message that they’d have to earn their pay.