Skyla McLeod, her parents named her, Hoped to shoot her to the top – Alas, the ev’ryday has claimed her, Clipped her wings and let her drop. She’s just a loser in the sky, Although she knows it’s all a mock – For now she only reaches high By living in a tower block.
Skyla McLeod in her fairy-tower, Watching the tiny people go, Pretending that she has the power To interrupt their to-and-fro. But still, her life is not so grim, When comes her prince, at the end of his shift – Then she’ll let down her hair for him, And he’ll ascend (though in the lift).
The Illinois by Frank Wright, king of the wangers.
The High Cost of High-Rise
Okay, I’ll admit it – The expertise to scrape the sky, To build a hundred storeys high, The maths we truly understand, The engineering we command, To know the stresses held in steel, To take such plans and make them real… Okay, I’ll admit it, It’s a pretty bloody big amazing deal.
But just because we can, That doesn’t mean we always should, That competence is only good – That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care, That towers often overbear, That carbon cost and energy To work the lifts is never free – So just because we can It doesn’t mean we have to boast so cleverly.
Who would have thought it, a glorious moment in March ! The sun arrives early to soften the lingering starch. Our sensible shoes might be slackened, though hardly unlaced – And coats are unbuttoned – but still being worn, just in case. For this is, we know, but a splinter In the long flank of Winter.
What should we call it – an Indian summer in March ? The trees are caught napping, the indolent rowan and larch. Our Febru’ry faces are cautiously risking a smile. But still we shall carry umbrellas – it’s only a trial ! For this is, we know, but a glinter Before the blackthorn Winter.
Look up. Look up on a clear night, And there they are – Oases of light in the desert black, That stretches back forever far. And how many worlds must orbit ?, And more each time we look, Where congregating chemicals can cook…
They must surely be Surrounding us on the deep and wide – They that cannot help but hide In all directions we can see. We are within a ball of life Where all we view on ev’ry side Are living stars with planets each – And all beyond our reach.
All this life, and nothing to show – It’s simply far too far away, So there they are and there they’ll stay As epochs come and eons go. We listen out for radio, But static is all they play. They must be out there, even so… Yet all this life – and we’ll never know.
If it’s true just as they say That that which does not kill today Shall only make us stronger yet Then boy !- for all the bugs I get, For all the lurgies, all the flus, The injuries and aches and ooze – For all of that, I should, I vow, Be bloody Superman by now !
The Harvest Field, with Church Spire in the Distance by Peter de Wint
Endless Rolling Fields
All my growing years were spent In villages and country lanes, Alas ! For I was always meant For city streets and busy trains And all those years against my will Would only serve to stoke my dream – They stole my time and served me ill, Depriving me of smoke and steam. My parents thought it best for me To live in rural peace, But I was sick of cows and geese, And waited for my destiny.
And so I suffered Summer days With nothing doing but the bees – I’d wander through the wooded ways And couldn’t even name the trees. Some had burrs to ruin jumpers, Some I’d climb or hang a swing – Some were conkers, some were scrumpers, Some had dandruff in the Spring. But otherwise they were the bars Around my rural cage, Their green and brown forever beige, Their fruits forever trapped in jars.
But now and then, I got a taste Of glamour, in the local towns – But oh, it hurt to see what waste My life had been upon the downs. For here were markets for exploring, Full of wonderments to buy ! And here were buildings, gleaming, soaring, One, two, three, no four floors high ! And that was when those shining stones Broke through my rural hold. I knew the streets weren’t paved with gold, But granite flags and herringbones !
It wasn’t till I finished school That I was finished with the sticks I mustered all my pent-up fuel, And then I ran – I ran to bricks. I left my folks upon the green, For we could not be reconciled. They love their world so small and clean – I’m surely an adopted child ! But I still visit, for all I knock it, Back to their rural lot Just as long as I know that I’ve got A return stub safe in my pocket.
Unto Those Who Have Shall be Given Is Mammon then the new religion ? Well, the wealthy always love a feast – And even bankers care a smidgen, Looking to the rising of the East. Oxonites and Grantabridgians Hail economists as modern priests. But who will feed the hungry pigeons When the gurus prowl with bigger beasts ? They cast the runes and read the guts, They tighten belts and order cuts, They short on ifs and hedge on buts, And half the time they’re nearly right, at least.
So is the market of the bull The gilded temple of the Golden Calf ? The debtors push, the futures pull, And prophets lease the rod to pay the staff. The brokers of the stock are full Of warnings and of lunches and of graphs, While sheep are fleeced of all their wool, And dealers trade in bitter tears for laughs. They watch the clouds and read the leaves, They loosen ties and roll their sleeves, They sup with kings and drink with thieves, And all our prayers are now worth only half.
Rhyming Couplets 