SEASIDE

Metallic click of walking sticks,

On the paving stones beside the harbour

Or any other British seaside promenade.

And the hum of electric wheelchairs,

Beneath wheeling screaming seagulls

Whilst spoiled spaniels

Strain at leashes to attain doggy treats;

Almost overturning owners.

Old mods and rockers

Have returned to the beaches,

Scooterless and  bikeless,

But still bedecked with badges.

Now they’re more likely to fall over deckchairs

Than throw them at each other.

Then there are the giant windmills,

Standing in the sea

Turning, turning, turning.

 

 

 

 

 

NEASDEN ORNITHOLOGY

Seagulls, starlings, pigeons and crows

Scavenge around the shops,

On top of the hill above the orbital road.

Some slice through the polluted air

Like white winged knives

Some squawk and scuttle,

Along the pavements

To stay with their flock.

Some wait for opportunity

Perched atop lamposts.

Some just know where to go.

They find the shoe squashed grapes,

That have fallen from

Greengrocers’ displays.

They find  crumbs of pitta bread

Old cold potato chips

And rancid bits of kebab meat

So, life struggles on in this bleak place,

As long as there’s anything to eat.

WORM ASSISTED THOUGHT

 Memories of dead friends wake me,

As radio speaks of

Lunar lithium mining,

And election of fascists.

So, I’m glad that my dead friends

Do not have to hear

What’s happening now.

The only place to go

Is down the garden path

To the compost heap

To forking stick

A forking fork in it

And turn over rotting death,

To more quickly start new life.

There I find fat fat earthworms,

Greedily assisting me

In a slimy segmented way.

Some must be reincarnated parts of

The great poet Emile Sercombe,

And the great ecological arguer

Brian Orr,

Reminding me that

I too must shed my gross corpse

And embark on a worm assisted voyage

To another life,

In a richer compost heap,

On a healed planet.