Berlingo
Berlin – City of the english Language,
All Thanks to Hollywood and Touristdollars –
With bilingual Signs to ease our Angst and Anguish,
And fluent Secondtonguers and subconscious Scholars.
From Burntborough Square to Prince Elector Way
Welcome to Berlinnington-on-Spray.
Suburban Spiritual
If the bells ring out from the crossing tower,
I’ll meet my love upon the hour –
I’ll meet my love, and we shall stroll
From the old gas works to the new may-pole.
If they call to prayer from the minaret,
I’ll meet my love on the High Street yet –
I’ll meet my love, and we shall wend
From the old canal to the new bridge-end.
If the trumpets bray the sabbath’s start,
I’ll meet my love in the Hounds & Hart –
I’ll meet my love and we shall roam
From the old duck pond to the new dogs’ home.
If chanting comes from the temple door,
I’ll meet my love by the superstore –
I’ll meet my love and we shall stray
From the old sheep track to the new free way.
So Many Locks, So Few Keys
Locksmithing looks like a lonely profession –
You get out to meet with the public, for sure,
But only the once, on your knees at their door.
You wrestle my barrel with little progression –
I’d naively pictured a surgeon-like skill:
Lockpicks and skeletons – rather than chisel and drill.
You work with me watching you over your shoulder,
Incase your tools gives my lockplate a nick –
What else can I do as we wait for the click ?
The drizzle picks up and your fingers grow colder,
Still trying to jiggle and jostle and jolt –
My whole life is trapped by a quarter-inch tamper-proof bolt.
And as for my neighbours – despite all your racket
While drilling-out, hammering, jemmying, screwing,
There’s none of them come by to check what you’re doing.
I s’pose I’ll take solace in how you must whack it !
I guess my old lock kept me truly secure –
A pity you must rip this hero from off of my door.
Finally !
You swing the door open to grant re-admittance,
My castle is taken – besieged, though benign –
And all my possessions are once again mine !
Though looking around, it feels like a housebreaker’s pittance –
My lack of ’lectronics and marble and chrome
Was probably all this time keeping me safe in my home.
You offer me three diff’rent grades of replacement,
With some anti-bump, anti-snap – and you grin:
“With this one, not even a locksmith could win !”
Though all this is pointless if I haven’t locks on each casement –
No-one will sweat on the strongest-held link
If the toplight’s ajar once again by the sink.
At last, I’m shaking your hand and writing your cheque.
Despite the assault on my fraught liquidity,
I have been saved from my own stupidity.
I show you at last to the door, which you brought back to spec.
“We shan’t meet again, I pray !” Your expression
Makes me think locksmithing looks like a lonely profession.
Hounslow Fast & Hounslow Slow
All the stages came through Hounslow,
All the coaches heading West –
Driving on to Bath and Plymouth,
Coming back in need of rest.
All the coaches stopped at Hounslow,
At the Bell or Rose & Crown –
For stretching legs and changing horses
For the final push to town.
They all knew Hounslow then –
The drovers, grooms and highwaymen.
But nothing stays the same –
And so one day the railway came.
Only three miles north of Hounslow,
Yet those three miles meant a lot –
Steaming on to Slough and Reading,
Faster than a horse can trot.
All the West once came through Hounslow,
Then the bypass passed you by –
And little mark is left to show
From when this High Street lived so high.
We all know Hounslow now –
A long way from a horse or cow,
Beneath where aircraft fly –
And like the trains, they pass you by.
Unter den Linden
I was walking
Underneath the lindens,
Walking with my true love,
With Summer on the breeze.
We were walking
Walking in Berlin, then,
Walking two-by-two, love,
Underneath the trees.
I was walking
Underneath the lindens,
Walking with my true love,
Past the other fraus.
We were walking
In our finest linens
Walking two-by-two, love,
Underneath the boughs.
I was talking
Underneath the lindens,
Talking with my true love
About my life and times.
We were talking
Of how back in Swindon,
When walking two-by-two, love,
We’d be walking under limes.
Where the Hounds Lie Low
All dogs come to Hounslow:
The Saxon mound of all the hounds,
From far and near, they gather here
Where no-one herds them into pounds.
You’ll find all breeds in Hounslow:
From native bulldogs, collies, setters,
Goldies, skyes, of ev’ry size,
A mix of strays and game go-getters.
Exotics, too, in Hounslow:
Poodles, spitz and borzoi breeds.
Dalmatians, pomeranians –
They’re free of collars, free of leads.
A thousand woofs in Hounslow,
And coats of ev’ry length and hue:
From lab to husky, pale or dusky –
Snouts and builds are varied, too.
They all feel safe in Hounslow:
The afghans, dingos and pariahs –
They fear no more the dogs of war,
And tails are safe from dockers’ pliers.
All dogs are free in Hounslow,
Where jack russell and king charles meet,
With great danes cheek by jowl with pekes,
And mutts and corgis share the street.
A better life in Hounslow,
Where they’re at peace to chase their sticks.
All dogs, they say, shall have their day
To raise the pups and learn new tricks.
All dogs come to Hounslow,
The mound where hounds find all they need –
And from each guest we’ll gain their best
To raise a stronger, mongrel breed.
Green Park Gallery
South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings
Paintings by the vanload are displayed –
Portraits and streetscapes and abstracts are prevailing,
Lots of dogs and Monet fogs and sailing-ships a-sailing.
Will we find the next Van Gogh just waiting its unveiling ?
Or likely find there’s nothing makes the grade ?
It doesn’t bother me, for it’s still a fine distraction
Where even daubs and dabbling hands can bring out satisfaction –
But then, I’ve no intention of enacting a transaction,
Despite the fact their purpose here is trade.
Oh, sell them to the tourists and to trendies with some empty walls,
I’m just browsing through the upright and reticulated stalls –
Varied works in ev’ry sense, from almost-tempted down to scrawls,
But either way, I never leave dismayed.
Not pampered by the critics or what some celeb endorses,
But subject to the fickle winds of naked market forces –
Which might explain the presence of so many racing horses,
With prices set by what the punters paid.
South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings,
Unfailingly is London’s best parade.
Cherry-Picking
Along Acacia Drive,
Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside,
And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews,
The civic cherries thrive –
An orchard only one-tree wide,
But threading through suburban avenues.
Before March has come,
I see the cherry plums are out,
Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop –
I never see the plums –
The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt,
Before they even get the chance to drop.
And just as those ones fade,
The cherries-proper flush with pink,
A very English taste of oriental.
And yet, as they parade,
I’ve never seen them fruit, I think –
I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.
A burst of April snow,
Confetti for an Easter bride,
A blossoming before the leaves are built.
They really make a show –
They love to boast, all front and pride,
Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…
Of course, ere April’s out,
They’re over for another year,
And all that’s left are unimpressive trees.
They are a Springtime shout,
Before the moans and tuts appear
To ask for dignified behaviour, please !
Which is a shame, I say,
For here beneath each semi’s eaves
They symbolise the middle-class at root –
For all their youthful play,
They settle down and spread their leaves
And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.
Brownfield
Groundsel grounds, where nettles nest
Between the tyres and scattered glass,
Where breeze-blown wrappers come to rest
Amid the hedgehog-hiding grass.
Round the corner from this waste
Are streets of white suburban palings –
But in here the bees make haste,
And foxes slink through rusty railings.
Snakes and lizards keep discreet
Amongst the clinker, bricks and stone.
But crickets, toads and parakeets
Still let their whereabouts be known.
Broken concrete catches rain,
Which lures the newts from nearby parks.
Mosquitos fill each pit and drain
With twitching ink-black question marks.
The bats all chase the moths all night,
The wrens all chase the flies all day,
The moles chase worms, but out of sight,
But slugs won’t run – they’re here to stay !|
Ferrets stalking, hamsters feeding,
Both escapees from their pens.
Cats are courting, bugs are breeding,
Badgers building urban dens.
Spindly stalks with leaves too large –
Some saplings from the gardens near.
So will they get to swamp and barge,
And grow an urban forest here ?
But suddenly, this patch is gone,
As diggers turn it into town.
The residents will soon move on,
And find another field of brown.
Sorry, Elizabeth
“Big Ben is only the bell,”
You smugly tell,
But actu’lly, we already know.
Except you’re wrong:
It’s the bit that goes bong,
And ev’rything else, above and below.
Big Ben is the bell,
And the clock as well,
And even the whole bloody tower !
Ask any you meet
On Parli’ment Street
Whenever he’s chiming the hour.
Rhyming Couplets 