Miniatures

Model railways run in circles,
Through the days of steam,
All cobbled-streets and Northern quirk-ful,
In a Thirties dream –
A spotless, frozen neighbourhood,
Bedecked with tiny trees,
And terraces of balsa-wood,
And cardboard factories.
This world had vanished long before
These modellers were born,
But here, in H-O scale once more,
It’s elegantly worn.
They never show the modern world,
It seems – no urban sprawl.
Perhaps they take so long to build,
It sets their sights so small…?

Day 3 – Miniature – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry

Home Kits

There’s far too many teams in red,
(And those that aren’t are blue instead) –
With some in stripes, a hoop or two,
Between the red (or else the blue).
And some are claret, some are sky –
But few will use a diff’rent dye.

So we look ourselves at home –
Yet on the road, we shed our skin.
And the fans will wear our latest polychrome
With a loyal grin –
Any colour, just so long we win.

But here and there, a yellow lurks,
Or gleaming white, which also works,
Or sometimes green, or sometimes gold,
(Or even pink, if feeling bold).
Now black’s a pretty unseen beast
As that’s the ref (or was, at least).

We may look odd away, for sure –
Yet when at home, we bear our crest,
Just like we’ve done a century or more
Upon our chest –
We don the colours that bring out our best.

Dear The Future

Thank you for taking an interest
In my world and my life and times –
Well, not specific’ly mine,
But those around me, and those that shaped me.
Except… you only get to see
A tiny slice of our paradigms –
The few that were preserved,
And yet most likely wholly have escaped me.

The art we leave is the art commissioned
By those with means to commission art –
And overlooks the many times
I’m left to feel so left behind –
Where nobody is saying the things I want to say,
But where to start ?
While all around are images
That in no way represent my mind.

I am a part of my world, in theory,
Yet wield so little influence,
That I sometimes swear I’m an alien visitor,
Stranded on a dead-end street.
But what if every stranger around me
Is thinking the same ?  And yet the sense
That what the Future will take from us
Is simply that of a tiny elite.

I guess that means I’m probab’ly wrong
About the Romans or Tudor-men –
I don’t know bobbins about their likes
And politics and dreams and stuff –
Just because a certain art made money,
For a few years then,
It doesn’t mean it had a lasting impact
Once it lost its fluff.

So thank you, Future, for your int’rest,
But it’s only int’rest in
A few strange costumes from our wardrobe,
Picking apart the hem.
I get it – you study what you can find,
The memories you think we’re dressed-in –
Even though we most-of-us never wore those clothes,
But laughed at them.