Estuary
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.
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.
Coventry was UK City of Culture 2021.
Restitution
Reparations ? What, today ?
Two hundred years too late ?
And how to choose who has to pay ?
Best think it through now, mate…
White men ran the slave trade, true,
And I’m a man and also white –
But don’t charge me for grievance due,
I played no part in the blight.
While others wreaked this tragedy,
It’s not me, mate, and not my folks –
I come from village farmhands, see,
From ordinary blokes.
While others banked the whole affair,
Or clapped the chain or cracked the whip,
We never owned a single share,
Nor crewed a single ship.
So don’t try laying on the guilt
For crimes my bloodline never did –
The damnable at which you tilt
Were not my fam’ly, kid.
I bear no blemish on my name,
I bear no once-and-future sin –
Don’t think that you can judge my blame
By the colour of my skin.
It’s not me mate, and not my genes,
My hands are clean, my soul is light –
So spare your wrath for dukes and queens,
Not me, mate – get it right !
You may claim Britain was kept afloat
By ev’ry Caribbean crop –
Yet my folks never even had the vote
To make it stop.
My ancestors were starved and bruised,
And sometimes even outright killed –
They all were wage-slaves, much abused
By the lords whose lands they tilled.
It wasn’t as bad, of course, as chattel,
But still bloody bad, in its way.
But yours were worse – you’ve won the battle –
Is that what you want me to say ?
Alright, I’ll say it – cos I get it, I do –
But they’re not you and they’re not me.
So even if my blood were blue,
My soul would still bloom free –
For the faults of our great-great-grands back when
Have died with them, and passed away –
Look, nobody alive back then
Is still alive today.
For none of us in here’s a slaver,
No-one’s whitewashing the trade –
So please, just do us all a favour,
And find a new crusade.
Is there still inequality ?
For sure – not race, but class.
We need to target poverty,
Not grievances of the past.
Inherited wealth ? Old foundations ?
Tax the rich, then, to redress –
And give the reparations
To the schools and the NHS.
But your way feels like liberal creds
To buy-off the guilt and pain –
For giving a payout is putting a price on their heads
All over again.
Three Songs for May
1.
May comes bounding down the year
As eager as a springer spaniel.
Ev’rybody knows she’s here,
A bursting, blooming, early annual.
May comes blowing from the south
As teasing as a cuckoo’s call
She’s closing up old Winter’s mouth
By throwing off her woollen shawl.
2.
A little rain in May
Is sweeter than an April shower –
Though the high Spring skies may glower,
We know they will not last the day.
The clouds are silvery, not grey,
Less thunderheads than fairy towers,
Washing lambs and spritzing flowers,
Dropping by, then on their way.
3.
May – the name says it all.
The month when it might,
When it should –
Ah, but will it ?
The month that may have a squall
Or a heatwave,
Or a dozen other weathers
Come to fill it.
Could be a late gasp of snow up on the hills
While the valleys open windows,
And the breezes spin the mills.
Such is the fortune
In the month of maybe May.
When all of this could happen
In a week,
Or in a day.
Singalong
Three singing street vendors.
Vendor 1
Spring is finally here
To brighten the year,
Bringing birds on the wing.
Spring has finally smiled,
Like a favourite child,
And it’s making me sing.
Vendors 2 & 3
Yes it’s finally here,
The buds are in gear
To end Wintertime’s sting.
Vendor 1
The sun is shining for me,
And ev’rybody I see,
Vendors 1, 2 & 3
And it’s making us sing.
Punter enters. He doesn’t sing.
Punter
Morning. Copy of the Times and a packet of Polos please.
Vendor 1
Now come on buddy,
Let’s hear some sunshine outta you.
Now don’t be shy,
Just sing me one line, why don’t you ?
Punter
Well, you’re certainly cheerful this morning.
Vendors 2 & 3
Now come on buddy,
Don’t give an earful, that won’t do.
Just sing up buddy,
If we’re so cheerful, why ain’t you ?
Punter
You guys as well ? Seems everyone’s singing today.
Vendor 1
Ev’ryone except…
Vendors 2 & 3
Mr Misery, ole Mr Misery
Vendor 1
He ain’t got a note of joy to spread.
Vendors 2 & 3
No sir, no sir no way.
Vendor
Best stay away from….
Vendors 2 & 3
Mr Misery, he’s got no fizz, you see.
Vendor 1
Wish he’d rain on someone else instead.
Punter
Hey come on, I just want a Times and some Polos.
Vendor 1
You don’t get nothing in this life,
Unless you gonna sing for it.
Vendors 2 & 3
Doo-wop-doo-wop.
Vendor 1
Said you don’t get nothing in this life,
Unless you gonna sing for it.
Vendors 2 & 3
Doo-wop-doo-wop-a-lop-a-doo.
Punter
Seriously ?
Vendor 1
If you wanna get something in this life,
Then let me hear you sing for it.
Punter
Alright !
The Punter sings really badly.
Punter
Please may I have a copy of the Times
And some Polos…um…and a pound of limes ?
The Vendors clutch their heads in pain. The Punter backs off, embarrassed.
A News Reporter appears on the scene with a microphone.
News Reporter
Yes, it’s another cruel case of discrimination against the tone deaf by musical theatre. Reporting for the BBC, this is…
(singing)
Pheobe Leigh !
The Horticultrix
She worked for the council, she mending their greens,
And their roundabout gardens and motorway screens.
She weeded their paths and she tended their sprays,
And swept up their cherries’ displays.
Her hedges were sprinkled in sloe-blossom white
As I asked if her lanes were a primrose delight.
She plucked me a buttercup, proffered with thanks –
As dog-violets guarded her banks.
We kissed to the hum of the first of the bees,
As the belfries of bluebells all chimed in the breeze –
And daffodils trumpeted Springtime unfurled,
As fiddleheads flexed and uncurled.
The teeth of the lions were under our thighs,
And they ev’rywhere shone from forget-me-not skies.
We trampled their verges, enrapt and entwined –
The daisies, though, seemed not to mind.
She showed me the places the tulips grew wild,
Aloud and ablaze, then eleven months mild.
Their flowering passion so vital, so brief –
And ashwoods were not yet in leaf.
The lords and their ladies unwrapped their white cloaks,
And the crockets were sprouting on beeches and oaks.
Our lessons botanic were daily resumed –
At least, till the mayflower bloomed.
A Qroq of Qraq
Q’s without U’s,
You’re not fooling me –
You’re out to confuse
With your Q’s floating free.
But I know you’re trick –
You’re just curly K’s,
With a kick and a click
To anchor a phrase.
Yet sometimes in French
At the end of a word,
A Q is what’s mentioned,
But K is what’s heard.
And Arabic’s full of ’em,
Inuit too,
With gutter and phlegm
To push the sound through –
Less plosive, more fricative,
That’s what it’s telling –
It’s purely indicative,
Snobbish in spelling –
For only a Scot could
Hope to pronounce it –
No Sassenach should,
They’ll mangle and trounce it.
And that’s not a problem,
It’s just how they speak –
They’re likely to drop them
Than rumble or squeak.
And why must we write down
These non-English letters
For non-English sounds,
So the cringing trend-setters
Can show how well-travelled
Their spellings display –
With words that unravelled
When struggled to say.
So spare the obtuse views
On grammatophones –
We’ve no use for loose Qs
Without chaperones.
The title is intended to be a play on ‘crock of craic’, but I had to ditch the superfluous k and i.
Underproduced
Stripped-down and unplugged,
Going back-to-basics –
These are words that fill my ears with dread.
Guitars strummed and harps tugged,
Waxed and polished double basses,
Drummers told to stay at home instead.
I don’t want your simple sound,
I want music complicated
I want synths that growl and pound,
Electrified, not automated.
Full of intricate design,
Not simply autotuned and gated –
I want music of its time,
Not scared of being dated.
Hashed out and doped up,
Family-friendly faceless,
Perfect songs for sending off the dead.
Slowed-down and moped-up,
Going back to basics –
These are words this fill my soul with lead.
Bread Stick
People love to grumble over supermarket bread –
“It isn’t really fresh, you know” I’ve often heard it said,
“It’s made in batch in Swindon and then frozen” they explain,
“So all they do in bakeries is heat it up again.”
Croissant, bap, or pumpernickel,
Loaf-lovers sure are fickle –
Kneeded crumpets, seeded squabblers,
Talking sourdough and cobblers.
You know, that doesn’t bother me, as long as they still taste –
And oh!, the smell of toasted carbs will never go to waste.
But why are still-warm loaves just plonked on open racks for show
In the air-conditioned hell that sucks all moisture from the dough ?
Cardboard slices, leaden grain,
With all self-raising turned to plain.
Golden crust and pain-au-choc,
As dry as dust and hard as rock.
Spring Pruning
My neighbour disliked her cherry laurel
And asked to borrow my saw.
She offered me all the wood for my fire
In exchange for my muscle and jaw.
And so we chopped and chatted all morning
On what we joked was her ‘ranch’.
She called it an invasive species
As we tackled its largest branch –
She certainly didn’t remember planting the thing,
So out it went
(Though she waited till all its blossom had dropped
Which had lasted all through lent.)
I’ve heard when burned it smells of cherries,
But we scented almonds that day –
She said, well that’s the cyanide,
Remember, this laurel’s no bay.
We made fair work of its lily-white wood
Till we left its stump for bare,
But we still got a slight furriness in our mouths,
Despite our gloves and care.
I offered her a seat by my fireside
Watching her tree disappear,
But she said I needed to season it first,
So call her up in a year.
Rhyming Couplets 