English counties show a frozen glimpse Of population, Of where we lived, a long time since, At the dawn of our English nation. Cathedrals too, and the larger abbeys, Hint at a bustling past – Wells and Ripon weren’t so shabby, But boom-times couldn’t last.
Huntingdon, you once were free, With Somerton and Appleby – But people change, and trade moves on, To Milton Keynes or Basildon.
Political constituencies Can’t stand still too long, Without some boarder-fluencies To keep their numbers strong. Postcode districts are a modern score To count the blur – If they survive a thousand more, They’ll show where once we were.
Stevenage, you’re earned your key, With Swindon and Southend-on-Sea. But people change, and drift away To who-knows-where and come-what-may.
She is a Goth in black and pale, In a daily cosplay, a loudmouth mime – I muse if the process ever gets stale ? But she’s on the dole, so I guess she has time. On the days when I see her looking very boring Is a day when I think she prob’ly has an interview – But otherwise, I see her chequered like the flooring, Posing for commuters as we hurry on through. In time, I guess, she’ll simply grow out of it, And land that job where she has to behave, And sign-up for tennis, as if she never doubted it, And marry into motherhood, and paint the architrave. Until, one day, an unexpected photograph, An over-awed grandchild, and it all comes back – With a flicker of pride and an unassuming laugh, And a tale of the daily pale and black. Am I projecting ? I think I’m projecting. But every day, as her statement goes by, I find myself once more reflecting On how she’s the only one round here to even try. Yet surely the Goths are braver when in company, As freaks together, a performance shared ? But her mates just slouch in their t-shirts, grumpily – And I am no different, I never would have dared…!
Low branches over pavements, Should I bob or step out in the road ? Who leaves wych-elms any which-how, Never pruned, and deeply downward-bowed ? Though less likely misbehaving, More likely negligence at fault. I ought to hack them off right now, But more than like I get done for assault.
Double-deckers punch right through, But my head has to duck beneath each stalk. It’s worse when it’s been raining, And I get a hairwash thrown into my walk. But appletrees, and conkers too, Are lack-of-headroom serial abusers – Lurking, swelling, for each braining – As the Autumn comes, so come the bruises.
Is any sound more villagey Than the village pigeon‘s call ? But it’s now heard in the strangest places, Dawn to evenfall – With not a stile or thatch in sight, Atop the concrete wall, We get a hit of rural life Within the urban sprawl.
For even in the suburbs, in those tryhard-hamlets, Right on cue, The woods have flocked to join the rocks And brought along their coo. I wonder who now occupies their trees, Where up they grew ? Who next with wanderlust ? The city swine ? The urban ewe ?
Of course, their feral pigeons Have since long since paved the way – But their call is so disorderly And mumbled night and day. But how the chest of a country lad must swell In the urban grey, When a wood is proudly hooting And she has a lot to say !
Once, all this was fields, Before the semis and the lawns – But their ghost still haunts the verges Where the stinging nettle spawns, The brambles form a makeshift hedge, The foxes keep the rabbits clear, And the accidental barley waits For the fresh suburban beer.
Once, all this was pasture, Till the Guinea pigs replaced the sheep – Yet deer still nibble round the edge, And moles have penetrated deep. The thistles form a pop-up wood, The owls invade the lean-to shed, And the reawakened barley waits For the local deli’s bread.
The lib’ries of my childhood mind Were dark and ancient rooms, Where vaults of pages whispered In their literary tombs, And candlelights cast shadows In the labyrinth of glooms, As the monks, all dressed in brown, Chained their precious volumes down.
The lib’ries of my childhood days Were dull and grimly quaint, Where silence wasn’t reverence But boredom and restraint, With long, prosaic rows of spines With no allure or taint, As the staff, all dressed in beige, Locked away each racy page.
The lib’ries of my adulthood Are not as deeply hewn – They aren’t a gothic paradise Or brutalist cocoon, But just an easy place to spend A rainy afternoon, As the books, all dressed in white, Spread their words to all in sight.
Ev’ryone clockwise, round and about – By habit we orbit, by gravity bound, As we veer to the left and we slowly drift out – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
Flow with the currents and circle the mound – Which is home to whatever can reach it and sprout, With its jetsoms of hubcaps, since long run aground. The rest – in the tarmac they’ve drowned.
These rivers of traffic are never in drought, All whirled to the edge till an exit is found, Where others flow-in and forever, no doubt – Ev’ryone clockwise round.
My attempt at a roundel – but I felt there was a line missing in the second verse so I revolutionised it.
My folks were full of the fear of God, And full of His holy gravity. Music, and dancing, were frivolous wastes And bywords for depravity. And birthdays passed with nary a mention So’s not to lead our thoughts astray – But I was still the lucky one, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in the dark of Winter, In the midst of an Almighty freeze Too far North for much of sunlight, Too bleak for that many trees. But ev’ry year, the town would string up lights As if to lead my way, And hope that it might snow for me – For I was born on Christmas Day.
Ev’rybody wore a smile, And nobody wore grey – Ev’rything was done with style, Right through to Hogmanay ! And my fav’rite animal, the deer, Was ev’rywhere, with a sleigh ! How much I loved this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
I was born in ignorance, And thought all this must be for me – The whole of the town would celebrate That time I changed from two to three, They cheered some more when I turned four, At five and six, they cried hooray – My parents couldn’t stop it all, For I was born on Christmas Day.
They may not have given me presents, But they gave me the greatest gift on Earth – I used to think how lucky Jesus was To coincide with my birth. And piously, I’d thank the Lord For far more joy than words can say. And so I grew up loving life – For I was born on Christmas Day
The choirs would sing, The bands would play, The bells would ring, The shops display, And all the world felt good and near, In one long cabaret – How much I love this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
Like other kids with Santa, though, We all must learn the truth – I gradu’ly became aware, As I slowly left my youth. But nonetheless, I didn’t mind, There was no shame to pay – Cos they never could take the glow from me, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in happiness, Despite attempts to tamp it down – And I got to cast my birthday wish To spread my joy throughout the town. I stopped believing in the end in Jesus, But that’s okay – Cos I still believe I must be blessed, For I was born on Christmas Day.
And yes, the lights still shine, And yes, the drinks still sway, And still the robins pine, And still the reindeer bray, And I wish my parents well, despite, Their lack of festive fray – Let all the world join-in tonight, To be born on Christmas Day !
Parking ticket winging its way to Mr C. Gull by Craig A Rodway
Red-Herring Gulls
The sudden shriek of a seagull Takes me back to the ozone, back to the seaside – To those Summers of sand and Ninety-Nines, Where the fish is fresh and the Sun still shines. From ever since I was knee-high, Be it Morcambe, Cromer, or Ryde. The seagulls were my holiday guide.
But these days, the seagulls are ev’rywhere, Yes, even in Winter, even in the bleak – When gloomy days in gloomy suburbs See dozens pecking kebabs from the kerbs, With ev’ry beak in a mocking shriek. Well, go ahead, gulls – for a second there I was back on the prom without a care.
Quick, down here ! Over there ! Are they near ? They’re ev’rywhere ! You take one way, I’ll go this – Meet you Monday, Hit-or-miss. Best not dally, Shake your feet – Up the alley, ’Cross the street – Don’t stop now ! Pick up the pace – I’ll see you, somehow, Usual place.
Rhyming Couplets 