Fourthtides

The Celtic quarter days are out of sync
By six weeks or so, all said.
Not on the English solstice and equinox,
But behind (or ahead).
Now May Day and All Saints are obvious links,
To anchor the year secure –
But Lammas and Candlemas slip their docks
When they don’t mean much anymore.
And so the seasons grow and shrink,
And won’t be tightly bound –
The year won’t fit a nice square box,
When its orbit is a round.

I’ve discussed quarter days before, and their mixed-up child the tax year.

On a bit of a tangent, but I’ve long thought the perfect year would be made up of 6-day weeks – with five per month, or 60 in a year (plus five spare days, interspersed one every three months, plus one extra for New Year’s Day). This would mean that a particular date was always the same day of the week each year, and we could finally ditch Mondays…

Mudbricks

Humans, like water, flow down from the hills
To the lowest and easiest level to settle –
On floodplains and coastlines, the habitat fills
With the tides of the houses that sprout-up like petals.
Until, as the towns and the centuries grow
There must come a reckoning one stormy May,
As the flood meets the flood – so the undertow
Shall sink all the streets that stand in its way.

We have to live somewhere, but so does the water,
And so we must share the valleys and lakes –
In a constant battle of marsh and mortar,
To raise-up the levee before it breaks.
The humans are clever, but the river is long,
And gravity draws then both to ground –
So the silt is as soft as the stones are strong,
Till the continents rise or the roofs are drowned.

From Mighty Acorns…

As a child, I’d wander Hundred Acre Wood
On the pages made from paper from its trees.
I heard that they chopped it down right where it stood
Because the bears were eating all the bees.
But I later learned that it never had grown at all,
There was no-such place, it was all just make-believe,
Or some said that it did in the pencil and the scrawl
Of the author who had plucked it out of his sleeve.

Pooh wouldn’t care, of course,
He knew the woods he knew –
But he isn’t here to ponder
Where his fav’rite forest grew.

I heard some people claim it lives within,
That we carry it, us all, inside our minds.
But since we can’t agree on where our common thoughts begin,
Then the woods we’re thinking of are diff’rent kinds.
And some say it simply is a real wood in Surrey
Which has only undergone a change of name.
But others say an inspiration source is far too blurry
To be ever thought as all-one-and-the-same.

Pooh wouldn’t care, of course,
The trees were just the trees –
But he isn’t here to wander-off
To put me at my ease.

The Eve of the Eve

Christmas Eve would last forever,
Or so it would seem like, afterwards.
As a kid, of course, wanting it over,
And yet, not yet – while it still affords
The family gathered, watching the specials
And singing the carols, and sipping Dad’s beer.
And did we really do any of that ?
Well, we did in my memory, every year.

Christmas Eve still lasts forever,
As it did last Christmas, all night long –
Where we snuggled down with the sofa and sherry,
As the radio played an endless song.
But I never remember to notice on Christmas Eve,
Not till the following day,
Which is far too busy to hang around –
But at least we get that sweet delay.

Got You Covered

When you need someone to fill-in time for a quick-change,
I’m your champ.
When you need someone to strut and mime with a big range,
I’m your vamp.
I’ll keep them watching over here,
While you slip-off to switch your gear
I’ll keep them entertained, no fear,
I’ll be your aide-de-camp.
So, anywhen you need a breather,
Or your hair is in a mess,
I’ll keep them at a fever
While you squeeze-into that dress.
And I won’t outstay my welcome – never !,
I know when to disengage –
When I see you’re back together,
To come striding onto stage.

Picture Perfect

Once, a photo was all the proof we needed –
Unfakeably real.
From journalists to private eyes,
They’re cutting-through a thousand lies.
Snap it, print it, we’ll believe it,
Wasn’t that the deal ?
But Stalin should have taught us right
To never trust in black and white.

A photo’s a tangled weaving –
Of light, and of how we feel –
They’ve always been a compromise
Between our out and inner eyes.
So now, with AI’s bold deceiving,
Why make such a meal ?
As if King Kong and Georges Méliès
Had not exposed the shades of grey.

Lonely Gamut

What do the guidebooks think of me ?
I wonder how much I impress ?
Do Baedeker and Pevsner both agree
To must-see my address ?
I guess my suburb may be boring
As my background as my job –
But like to hope I’m worth exploring,
As a breather from the mob.
Of course, I think I have a little charm
For those who come to look –
So take a detour – where’s the harm ?
Must ev’rything be by-the-book ?
But maybe I’m an av’rage gaff,
And not a place you’ll reminisce –
At a solid two-stars-and-a-half,
But something safe to miss.

Exotic Ice

Twenty thousand years ago,
Then all we see from here
Was nothing but Devensian –
All white and cold and clear.
It took a thousand years of snow
To lay the drifts so deep –
A slab of ice far denser than the hills,
And fast more steep.

Welcome to blighted Blighty,
Frozen over, unawares,
Though the Southern downs were merely tundra,
Roamed by mammoths and bears.
But the thaw would bring a mighty change,
An invasive species, exotic and strange,
To cast the native beasts asunder –
Humans, expanding their range.

The High-Shod Strut

Once a-time, a set of boots
Would mean a sturdy pair –
A sign of well-protected feet
Parading down the lane or street.
So from the crushing jacks of brutes,
Or workmen’s safety-wear –
They took their time to implement,
Behind the laces of intent.

But now a-days, we’ve turned the boot
Into a quick affair –
We slip them on and zip them up
To wash the car or walk the pup.
We find there is no substitute
For easy mid-calf flair,
We’ve sheathed each shin and sprung each arch –
We’ve filled our boots, so let’s quick march !