Poetry

The wind
on Brandon hill
Waves the trees
and there leaves
go
with
it
almost to
open waters
a beauty place:
Where,
from last centuries’
secret gardens
rocks and colour-full
and dark ever-greens,
steeples and towers stick out –
bunched between branches
see magic glade in city air
by day
the windy paths and grasses
peopled by
lovers lunch-breakers
dog-strollers and tea-takers –

The tower stands solid
offering views to
romantics and gazers

by night
the grounds are still;
great gothic tower
looms –
entrance gated
staircase
dank, turret-like
spiralled
full of whispers
whilst moon
spills ghosts
onto the paths

***

Strength in the face of domesticity

meal time again
and clean things are transformed
again
with mouthfuls and chit-chat
or inner conversations.
As if sloppily vacuumed
food matter is removed from plate.

With full belly-ness
there are moments of satisfaction.

now, crockery and cutlery
cannot be just
put back
like that
all slimey
with sauce
and carrion
instead it must go to be renewed
over at that big china white basin
with chained plug
and ugly hole

but who will renew?
Not me –

surely not again?

but again,
I must –
every day every meal.

So tiring is this!
This constant
story of renewal
this ruddy fairy-liquid ritual
complete with intense
hot-and-cold water dynamics,
slippery object control
and oil fiddly surfaces

I pray to the god of
Personal Loans
for an automated
afterlife.

***

I would love to hear from anybody what they like and dislike about my poem.