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20 July 2017

20/7/2017

Villanelle

The clock’s slow ticks. Your heart’s dry beat.
The telephone waits, indifferently dumb,
And endlessly the days and nights repeat.

Footsteps thump from the frozen street,
Fade to air like a passing drum.
“The clock’s slow,” ticks your heart’s dry beat.

The fire gives off an unfelt heat,
The radio, a half-heard hum,
And endlessly the days and nights repeat.

One by one your hopes retreat,
As shadows on the floor become
The clock’s slow tick, your heart’s dry beat.

Pages snowdrift at your feet.
You stare them through, unreading, numb,
And endlessly. The days and nights repeat

Until their sameness is complete
And now you know I will not come.
The clocks, slow, tick your heart’s dry beat
And, endlessly, the days and nights. (Repeat.)

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6 July 2017

6/7/2017

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Song For Those Who Don't Complain

After Wilfred Owen

They listen. They do not raise a question
To the announcer's pacifying prattle.
Street-lame, nostrils charged with congestion,
They have the time to spare to stare. Strange cattle
Swaying with sandwiches, numbered tickets;
Patient to join the pay-per-viewers,
To ohwell the early loss of wickets,
A nation of shoppers, silent queuers.

On Sundays, when we get the mower out,
That ticklish sweetness speaks of ancient walks
Along riverbanks, with Grandfather's tales
Of Victory, of Glory that never pales.
We jab the rusty blades with garden forks.
We are tired. Not much else to moan about.

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Thursday Afternoons

20 July 2017

6 July 2017

A Diary blog

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