The day it rained

 

Becalmed in that sun-blasted hulk

we languished in the dog days.

The flat sea was like glass.

We yearned in that wooden world

for our old life to return.

 

We prayed for the sighing rain

or a line of green on the horizon.

Suddenly a cry came: land ahead.

The sky cracked and, slowly at first

the wind pushed like an old friend, the shed.

 

The moisture that we had sought

blessed our cracked lips like a sacrament.

I looked about at the scorched grass

the flagstones that fire had burned

and the skeletons of lupins and spent lavender.

Helios

A frown passed across the sun’s brow

He said, It’s gonna be gloomy now.

See how I tug on your moods, like a string.

See the emotions I can bring?

I am the master of your planet.

 

I know everything. I control you.

See that cloud over there?

Think you can move it, with your mind?

Go on. Oh you can’t. Nice try, bro.

 

There is more in this universe

than you and your trigonometry.

I am that which cannot be understood.

I know you because we are the same stuff

 

the same atoms, the same breath

the same humours and elements.

I am everything and everywhere. I am numinous

That’s why you should respect me.

No worship is required, merely humility

Minister for Brexit opportunities

Thinks ....

Mmm ..... Now that my hedge fund’s based offshore

Lots more money than before

 

Droits de seigneur on my estate

That cottage with a squeaky gate

 

That means a spot of guilt free sin

Those serfs will have to let me in

 

A free shag and a mess of pottage

They’re gagging for it in that cottage!

 

Horses’ hooves and knacker meat

There’s lots of food for them to eat!

 

You wouldn’t see their stunted forms

Tucked up in bed in Eton dorms

 

What a shame that family

Will soon be downsized by TB

 

I said those words ironically

I learned from Jimmy Carr you see!

 

Oh tax ... you have a point my man

On that, I have a cunning plan

 

We won’t need it anymore

To fund the lifestyles of the poor

 

The NHS, the BBC

Will be consigned to history

 

Rights and benefits, the lot

All that Commie tommy rot

 

Spotless whites and country wickets

The hangman’s noose, children with rickets

 

Scottish moors and well-hung pheasants

Hunting with compliant peasants

 

All this opportunity
Will come to us now we are free

 

Tug the forelock bend the knee

It’s swedes for you and steak for me

What do we need?

Sewage pours

From broken outflow

What do we need?

A picture of Bo Jo!

 

Economy is on a go-slow

What do we need?

A picture of Bo Jo!

 

We’re shrinking

Like a punctured Lilo

What do we need?

A picture of Bo Jo!

 

Digging carrots from snow

What do we need?

A picture of Bo Jo!

 

We told the foreigners to go

What do we need?

A picture of Bo Jo!

 

Our reputation is in tatters

And our union is breaking

Sacrificed by spivs and liars

 

Getting rich is all that matters

The truth has no value now

You know why, don’t you?

What we do we need?

I think you know

What we need is

Building a shed

 

 

And so in a scowling gale, I pitch the roof

and hoist purlins and other terms I do not know –

man abuses gravity, the new gestalt.

I don’t know how I know how to do this

only that I that I do and that contentment

is the inevitable result.

 

From the twitching light of neighbours’ rooms

dancing with doom in a howling storm

I know this must seem faintly weird.

This flowerbed footprint is my Man Friday.

I must look to them like Robinson Crusoe

with my muddy slippers and Covid beard.

 

When you speak an image, it is said

that a new spirit enters the room.

But here, in a suburban garden

I am enclosing a volume of air

in order to fill it with words.

Each trimmed lawn is a failure of empathy.

.

Amber island

 

After an easy journey

with few customs formalities

I would arrive calm and energised

for my two week holiday.

 

On amber island there would be

a beach bar run by a wise old fisherman

as gnarled as Poseidon

where the cocktails are almost free.

 

There would be no need to worry

about money or time.

Here, I would be like King Midas –

rich in the local currency.

 

Perhaps a small boat would take me

languidly, around the island

to a crescent of black sand

and a cave known to mythology.

 

The walled medieval city

would wrap me in its history

where a lifetime could pass by

in contemplation and poetry.

 

The sun would reliably

blaze and dip in a riot of saffron

and crimson into the wine dark sea.

Return to the UK? Why the xxxx would I?

 

 

The red prince

the news of his demise came suddenly
as I was driving, on business, up the M1
plaudits fountained, in a sugary sorbet
a deluge of unwanted information

fields like bored pensioners passed by
in a procession of indifference
crows pecked at the earth solemnly
at Watford Gap, I pulled over for coffee

without irony, the eulogies
itemised his luxurious hardships
as the flattering tributes continued
oozing, like molasses from a slave ship

his selfless dedication and modesty
and, the guardians of our national fable
courage, honour and loyalty
like toy soldiers, on a baize table

on the A1(M) the traffic melted away
eastwards, a glimmer of sparkling ocean
to the north, the fields shimmered hopefully
hazing, to an emerald horizon

from the Tyne’s spires and boxes of light
and the amber hovels of Darlington
the red prince’s men went off to fight
in each town was a brave battalion

garnished with medals like a Christmas tree
he waved to his men from the balcony
they roared and cheered without irony
they are the subjects of his last colony

as always, one-by-one, he betrayed them
leavers to a man, their wall is red
his gift, the dissolution of their own country
they are bereft, now that the duke is dead