Storm Warning

storm
The Gathering Storm by John Robinson

Storm Warning

The temp’rature is stalling,
And the air is tinged with tin,
The mercury is falling,
And the front is moving-in.
The cumulus is clumping,
And the sun is shafting gold,
The Ninety-Nines are slumping,
And the mugginess turns cold.

The temp’rature is dropping,
And the singing birds are stopping,
And the ringing ears are popping,
And the air is tinged with tin.
The woodpecker is calling,
And weathercock is squalling,
And the mercury is falling,
And the front is moving-in.

The chimneypots are whistling,
And the flies have stopped their buzz,
The static cling is bristling,
And the cats are balls of fuzz.
The thunderheads are stacking,
And the grey is turning black,
The sun is wholly lacking,
And the rumble starts to crack.

The temp’rature’s adjusting,
And the herald-winds are gusting,
And the anvil-tops are thrusting,
And the air is tinged with tin.
The heavy drops are splashing,
And the lightning-bolts are flashing,
And the mercury is crashing,
And the front is moving-in.

Via Metallum

mountain
Photo by Liam Gant on Pexels.com

Via Metallum

There is no metal in the metalled roads,
But still they’re made of steel –
They take the feet and hooves and loads,
And the ever-turning wheel.
The dust and ruts and highwaymen
Were swept away in dale and fen
By smooth and fast and tarmacked threads
With footed feet and watersheds.

But these have all been laid with stone
A century or more –
The job is done, the back is bone,
The soles are growing sore…
We surely now have roads enough
To leave the wilds unpaved and rough,
And only build our future trails
As metalled roads of shining rails.

Upward Spiral

brown snail on grey wall

Upward Spiral

A snail upon the concrete, half-way high,
Just scaling up the slabs to the broken-bottle prism
That shards into the crown that lacerates the sky –
It’s breaking up the straight lines, a bauble on the brutalism.

This snail is still there, years later, its shell becoming its coffin.  I wonder if it were poisoned by the concrete ?

Seventh Day

like morpheus
detail from Sleeping God by ernestoriveraart

Seventh Day

And on the Seventh Day the Lord did rest,
With feet-up on a cloud –
And hereafter, in Sunday best,
We imitate his weekly quest
To switch-off from the crowd,

For ev’ry Seventh Day, the Lord makes clear
To leave the fields unploughed.
For on this day the Lord is near –
So don’t have too much fun down here,
Incase we get too loud.

But what do you suppose he does Upstairs
When punched-out from the week ?
When through with listening to prayers
And judging sins and love affairs,
And blessing all the meek,

Kicking-back with a glass of manna, say,
Or visit Zeus the Greek ?
Or maybe give the spheres a play,
Or take a jog round the Milky Way,
Or give his beard a tweak ?

Thus ev’ry Seventh Day, to decompress,
He rests his weary head –
And he commands we acquiesce
To give up any busyness
And copy in his stead.

So we must waste the day with filling pews
And quelling Monday-dread –
Half our weekend in a snooze,
A seventh of our lives we lose,
Because he swings the lead.

Stone-Sand

photo of rocky seashore during golden hour
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

Stone-Sand

Shingle beaches, pebble-dashed,
Where armoured dunes are heaped and smashed
By hefting surf that tills and rolls
On up the beaches, spits and shoals,
Whatever flints that storm and time can prize
And toss like bowls –
All layered out by weight and size.

Gravels from the cliffs and beds
In blacks and greys, in blues and reds –
These bucket-breakers of the strand,
These castles that can never stand,
Upon a beach-head built by wave on wave
Of new-formed land,
Of nuggets dug from out the grave.

Pushing back against our soles,
The sucking wash between its holes –
This is no barefoot summer beach,
But haunt of limpet, kelp and leech.
Yet stones to scree to grains shall grow
Along this tidal reach
By silicates just going with the flow.

Sun Serfs

photo of sunflower
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

Sun Serfs

Sunflowers are conformists –
Growing equally tall,
Facing the same direction –
See one, see them all…
Until a shoot is pampered,
And displayed against a wall.

The clones out in the fields
They all droop their heads as one,
But the show-offs in the garden
They are staring at the sun.
But which will yield us seeds and oil
Once the reaping’s done ?

Wish I Were There

switch off the office

Wish I Were There

I should be on holiday right now,
Instead I’m still at work
Still typing out reports that won’t be read.
I should be at the seaside
Cranking what-the-butlers with a smirk,
Then fish & chips on the prom, and late to bed.
I long to swap my bowler hat
For stetson, Panama, or fez
Instead of charting overheads
With Paul the Bore and dreary Des.

I should be on holiday right now,
Not swamped in endless work
While dreaming that I’m swimming in the Med.
I should be in a cocktail bar
With the just-met eyes of a sexy Turk,
Or a charming couple from outside-Leatherhead.
I long to be in Venice,
As my corp’rate stress unwinds –
But instead the sun is trapped behind
These beige Venetian blinds.

Coasts

aerial view beach beautiful cliff
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Coasts

The Spanish have the Brava and Del Sol,
The French have the Vermeille and d’Azur,
The British have…the South, the East and West
They’re simply places for the trains to roll.
They sound so innocent and amateur,
Before the marketeers have had them dressed.

They gave us the Jurassic, don’t forget.
What next ?  The Coccolith Coast of Dover ?
The Devonian Coast of…I don’t know…Dundee ?
The Windfarm Coast of Wales – it could be yet,
The Yorkshire Bladderwracks – think it over,
The Seaside Coast of Seaton-by-the-Sea…

Summer Begins at Midsummer

silhouette of trees during golden hour
Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

Summer Begins at Midsummer

When the cuckoo changes his tune, it’s June,
The month with the longest afternoon,
When the golden hour will last an hour,
And the floral clocks are forever in flower –
It’s hardly worth the daisies to close
When a good night’s sleep is barely a doze,
And the nightingales must rush their glee
Till the sparrows peep at the crack of three.

The Travelcard Shuffle

photo of train
Photo by Lucas Prado on Pexels.com

The Travelcard Shuffle

Every morning, all Summer long,
We tie-less masses struggle aboard
The dawdling trains in the hungry platforms,
Like some suburban zombie horde.
Then staring out at rusty sidings,
Ragged lots, and the empty sweltering sky,
As the weaving rails must dance and join,
And the shapeless buddleia bushes go by.

Every evening, all Summer long,
We shirtsleeve masses of sweaty sardines
Cram airless trains on commuter corridors,
Staring at space or staring at screens.
Some folks ride on gilded viaducts,
Mutely surveying the city from high,
While we in the troughs watch the overgrown fences,
As grasping bindweeds bushes go by.