torquay

 At Torquay, on boxing day,

People process to and fro,

Taking thoroughbred children

And thoroughbred dogs,

On leads with them as they go.

In Christmas present boots and clothes,

They promenade the promenade

Beside a silver grey sea

Beneath a silver grey sky

Past the wooden benches there.

Without one glance, as they pass.

Each bench has small brass plaque.

Firmly fixed, so all can see.

High up on its wooden back

On each brass plate

There is a name,

Like Brian, Mabel, John, or Keith

And carefully inscribed beneath

Dates of birth and death are shown.

Their ghosts look outwards to the sea

Through the heedless passing parade

There are no skull dolls, fiestas or music at all

Here no one knows how to show respect

Metal labels have to do instead

So, polite conversations

Fill the fresh sea air

On the English day of the dead.

 

 

 

tunguska

 The Tunguska event was a large explosion of between 3 and 50 megatons^[2] that occurred  on the morning of 30 June 1908.^[1][3] The explosion flattened an estimated 80 million trees over an area of (830 sq mi) The explosion is generally attributed to a meteor air burst, the atmospheric explosion of a stony asteroid about 50–60 metres (160–200 feet) wide.

Never be beneath

An exploding asteroid,

If you can help it.

It would atomise

All your atoms and

Few people have been unluckier

Than anyone who was under

Tunguska.

Unless they are

A possible candidate for messiah

Living within reach

Of some psychotic tyrant

Who only believes

In blood iron and fire.

WINTER SOLSTICE THROUGH THE WINDOW OF A TRAIN CARRIAGE

Ranks of grey leafless trees,

Line the hilltops under grey skies,

Like ranks of determined sentries

Guarding against any changes.

'We want our winter back'

Their leafless limbs silently semaphore

To all who are ignoring them.

Below  in the  valley

As many people with many bags,

And a few small pet dogs

Speed  progressively past

In a mechanical caterpillar.

All travelling somewhere

In a frenzy of activity.

Because doing something

Is always better than doing nothing

When a year dies .

It has been like this

Ever since someone

Crowned with antlers

Danced in a firelit cave.

And activity works,

As it always has,

Because today is very slightly longer

Than yesterday.

And that continues until

The sentry trees stand down

From their duties,

Dress themselves with buds and leaves

And sleep for another summer.

damascus

A free man walks.

Looking around in wonder

He may not know where he’s going,

But he knows where he’s been.

The iron door was broken,

So, now he’s on the street.

Looking like he cannot yet believe,

That walls no longer confine him.

His arms are outstretched,

His hands palm upwards

As if to receive every possible blessing

From sun and sky

Long may these last

And from now on

Always light his path.

 

Intending to get back home

 Intending to get back home

As I roam in my sleep,

I make my way to a familiar railway station

Where, to my consternation,

I recognise the platforms, the stairs, the trains,

But not the names of the destinations

So, I scan indicators

And read the route maps,

Looking for the reason for this mishap.

I try to see where I went wrong.

To find the route I wanted all along.

Perplexed I decide to go by bus instead.

Out in the London street

The busses are double decked and red

The streets at first seem the same

As those I walked when awake

Yet they’re somehow different

And I don’t know which to take.

Then I think I’ll find my way,

If I just walk down here

Past a large domed building

Which must be the Albert Hall?

Or a church or a cathedral,

But it isn’t that at all.

Military people stand around outside

Waiting for a bugle call

Lost and bewildered

I wake from this bad dream.

To my own known  reality 

Where the howling gale outside my window

Seems reassuring to me.

Where did all the smoke go?

 Where did all the smoke go?

Was it blown away into history,

As a passing yellow cloud?

Once it was everywhere,

It seeped into everything

Infusing clothes, skins, rooms and breaths.

People smoked cigarettes, roll-ups,

Pipes and cigars

At home, in the street,

In buses, trains and cars

So many would all inhale and exhale

Now only a few last hold-outs

Light up their coffin nails.

I had a youthful ambition for smoke,

It looked so cool

It might make a young fool

Into a proper bloke.

All the tempting images

And brands and advertising mirages

Reinforced my bad choice

So, I enjoyed

Number Six and Number Ten

Then as nicotine inserted

Its hooks and chains

I inhaled and exhaled

Again and again

Bensons, Marlboro, Gauloises, Gitanes.

When the craving really needed slaking

I was capable of taking

Dog ends from ashtrays

To disinter smoked tobacco

Just to resmoke it and cough.

Too late I decided to cast smoke off

Now I am free

I think smugly

As I strap on tight

The breathing mask

That I need to sleep every night.

street

 Seen through the windscreen of a moving car,

This suburban street flashes past,

Lined with similar semi-detached,

Housing ordinary England

Not at all bizarre.

But walk its pavement,

Looking out for cracks,

Or protruding tree roots,

That might trip you in your tracks.

You might see a street stranger than it seemed.

Someone, maybe drunk or in a dream

Drove a vehicle through a front garden wall,

Almost crashed it into a front room.

Then did renegade scholar or maverick teacher

Decorate a grey metal electricity cabinet.

With a quotation from Frederich Nietzsche?

I read this with puzzlement

Then go on as best I can,

Past piles of soggy leaves,

As I am no superman.

A magpie cackles at me, so I retreat,

Through my front door

And off this strange street.