Downriver, below the final bridge, The last of the swans patrol – To meet the early terns, who reach Only this far from their native shoal. Passing strangers, side-by-side, Sharing the brackish tide.
Up-ocean, above the muddy flats, The first of the mussels are found To meet the sticklebacks and sprats, On the down-stream, up-bore bound. Passing currents, slow and wide, Sharing the brackish tide.
Coventry architecture before and after images taken from Coventry Now & Then
Ghost Town
Coventry once was the jewell of the Midlands, And Dreseden the Diamond of Saxony. The War did for them, of course, levelled them both, Cursed for their beauty and factories. But these days, one is a beauty again, And the other became a byword for blight – The perfect place for filming dystopian dramas, With not a tourist in sight. And half of its wounds are self-inflicted, As if the subconscious penance we pay For the vengeful bombing to tear down beauty – Is that why the concrete has to stay ? But the truth is, the Luftwaffe finished the job That the Council themselves had already begun. It streaks so grimy whenever it rains, Yet is equally harsh and grey in the sun. It’s called ‘brutalist’ for a reason – Because it’s so raw, like a wound across the eyes. And meanwhile Dresden has put on her ballgown, No longer cowering under the skies. Coventry once was the jewell of the Midlands, But now reduced to a national joke. It’s a place for slums and traffic jams, But it’s no place for Coventry folk.
Okay, I admit it, the Moon’s far too large and too far South, but you get the idea
Aurora Australis
Way down South, where looking up Is looking upside down – The Man in the Moon is wrongside-right, And the Plough ain’t even in town. The Dog Star sails above the Pup, Throughout the Summer sky, With Betelgeuse kept low at night And Rigel kicking high. To Northern eyes, where looking up Is looking strange and stark – The Milky Way is far too bright, The pole is far too dark.
Francis Drake by William Holl (?), Thomas Hardy by William Strang and Arthur C Clarke by Donato Giancola
West Country R.P.
Ev’ry -ing is singing, And ev’ry plosive plodes, Arrs are round and rhotic – But not to overload. Vowels are never clipped And haitches never drop – Ays are broad and classy, And glottals never stop.
I found a fossil in the park today – An ammonite in iron grey, Hardly rare, this type of fare, They get found in their scores – They all died by their millions Till they died with the dinosaurs.
But all the rock round here today Is built on London Clay – On the scene in the Eocene, With its lush and tropic shores, Yet laid down some ten million After the end of the dinosaurs.
I guess the path on which it sat Was older than all that. I guess its gravel had to travel From who knows where, of course – He’s an immigrant, like the millions Coming here since the dinosaurs.
Though I suspect it’s less of an ammonite and more of a snail.
The town where I grew up, Well, the nearest town I guess, Though still a dozen miles away – But I digress… It’s a pretty sleepy town That I left as quickly as I could, But in a funny way, I just Can’t quit for good. I’ve still got family living round, And school-friends I still see, So even though I left the town, It won’t leave me. Like when that sleepy town had raised A minor personality, A DJ with a surname that was known By the likes of me. Ah yes, I remembered That the same was borne by a kid at school – In my year, though I hardly knew him, Hardly spoke, as a rule. Nothing against him, but separate streams, A single mutual friend was all, And I hadn’t even seen him since, And could only just recall… Now he wasn’t the DJ (who was a she), But maybe his sister was…? My school-mates and family nodded, and set The rumour-mill a-buzz. Not that they knew him any better, But they do still live there, it’s true… And she’s only three or four years older, So maybe…? It’ll do. It was a tale for dinner parties, An anecdote around the club, Or for singing for our supper, Down the pub. So then, a decade after school, A short-term job and an idle boast When she came on the office radio As the lunchtime host. She must have just played Ace of Spades With stuff to give away, When a co-working Swede saw a chance To make my bragging pay – “My colleague went to school with your brother” Her email to the station read, “So can I have a ticket please For Motörhead ?” In half an hour, the DJ responded, “I have no brother by that name !” By email – not on the air, thank god – But all the same… Well, I was in the doghouse for a bit, Though no harm done – But then that surname came around again, And far less fun… A few years back, an incident Brought unexpected high renown, And all the national news in packs To that sleepy town. Strange to see its familiar face, The scrap of grass where we used to lark That the sombre bulletins insist On calling a ‘park’. Two names leapt out – one victim With a last-name of a teacher I had, So of course I got to wondering, Was Sir his dad ? But the other…the other was a woman, A right-aged woman, a woman with a name. (She wasn’t the DJ, who wasn’t even mentioned, They clearly weren’t the same.) The grapevine rustled, the gossipers gabbed, With the same conclusion as before – I was wary, but I felt the weight Of local lore. My own connection, even if correct, Is incredibly slight It feels wrong to be probing it – Rather gruesome, certainly trite. But growing up in a sleepy town, There’s precious little going on – So ev’ry little chance at something more Is seized upon. And that kid, that brother, who won’t recall me, Now has a strange kind of fame – For I’m sure I’ll always remember him, Or at least, his name.
I remember Sunday afternoons And watching classic black-and-whites, Though not so much for giant apes, Or top hats, kanes, or men in tights – But all my fascination fell On the opening seconds-worth, Wond’ring at that giant mast, And where its feet made earth – Novaya Zemlya first, for one, And Svalbard, I concluded, next, Then Ellesmere Island for the third, But the last one had me vexed… There’s nothing there but shifting ice, Though far more then than left today – It’s just as well they’d long gone bust Before the ice gave way.
Frost fairs upon the Thames, they never happen these days – Snow just once or twice a year is all we get round here. Curses to the Gulf Stream, damn your warming ways ! Snow just once or twice a year, and Spring is always near. And it’s shut down the town again, It’s shut down the town, my dear, Shut down the trains and the drains and the pier.
Nobody is ever ready when it comes a-falling, Never dressed for proper cold in proper Winter gear. Nobody is ever ready when the snow is balling, Before they’ve even had a fight, the flurries disappear. And it’s back to the rain again, It’s back to the rain, my dear, Back to the grey – and it’s here to stay, I fear.
Rhyming Couplets 