Believed to be in talks with himself
mad Tom is shouting at the trees.
He hurls abuse at the passing cars.
He was washed up here years ago
no-one acknowledges the bearded Defoe
and his crazed pavement philosophies.
The bunting thrown across the road
the dappled leaves that softly dance
the neat almshouses' quiet calm
and the traffic island, almost a square
why, but for the food – crisps and peanuts
one could almost be in France.
Day after day simply passes by
in a routine of meat and bread.
One road runs through, by the spire of St John's
the recreation ground and the War Memorial.
Here, the men of Penge are detained
eternally. The dead are still dead.
From the Crooked Billet I observe
the shadowed play of cloud and sun
in the guitar shop window. I absorb
the amber units of passing time
and the insane rantings of mad Tom.
Slowly, nothing is going on.
Those who have been there – a select few – will know the magic of the place. Twangs is my favourite guitar shop and I am very partial to the Crooked Billet with its wonderful selection of crisps and nuts.
4 comments:
"And his crazed pavement philosophies" - del-ic-ious.
I particularly love the afterthought about the Crooked Billet, not only is it a lovely little stop over in an otherwise inhospitable jungle but the name intrigues me every time I see it.... however I'm usually too inebriated to remember to research it's origins.
I believe Mr Edwards that it was the first hostelry in Penge next to the village green - a settlement nestling at the edge of the vast Great North Wood. A spit away from London on the stage coach. However, the present Crookd Billet is not on the site of the original one. The word unpretentious defines this pub today
You mean I've purchased these fine pantaloons and silken waistcoat for naught? (Sure I can re-purpose the tricorne hat though.)
Seriously though, thanks for filling a long empty hole in my knowledge.
Few people know about Penge!
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