Saturday 18 July 2015

Well Met in Dorking

I haven't been in Dorking for many a year but as the epitome of the middle-class south of London commuter town it suited my purpose admirably.

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Hail fellow, well met, it’s years since at school
We sniggered uneasily at the form master’s rule,
But it taught us to cope with life’s black and blue,                      
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

And for months you’ve caught this train every day?     
I’ve done it for years and know every inch of the way;
It teaches you patience and how to dodge through a queue,   
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

I recall my first job, low pay and long hours,    
You stayed on your toes for the bosses had powers!
They were sticklers but knew their work through and through,  
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

I’m a manager now, top-heavy with perks,
Though I’m not sure I know how everything works;
I’ve learned to take refuge behind the “long view”,
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?
 
“Partner” and children? Crikey, what can I say?           
Jill met a lifestyle coach and both ran away;
The children were helpful, texting in lieu,
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

I’m old now with gall stones, retiring soon;
I shall stand at my window and look at the moon;      
I should take up painting or do something new,
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

In dreams I see an eye staring and staring,
It worried me once but now I’m past caring;         
I’ll stare in my grave beneath the dark yew,
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?

Good to meet you again after so many years,
The heartbreaks, embarrassments, failures and fears;
Who would set out if ever they knew?         
   And surely that’s true:
   How goes it with you?                                                                      

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© August 2013


Saturday 11 July 2015

Months: Lyrics: July

The poems for March, April, May and June in this series were posted on 14 March, 13 April, 9 May and 15 June 2015.
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   Erect in the sward
Like Wells’s war-world Tripods,    
Feasting on oil-hot sun,
Settlers on lank legs,
   Ragwort – staggerwort –
   Whiffs like dung.                            

Yellow as plates of yolk             
   Its flowers, its leaves
   Like curly kale;
And all July the wold
It roves – its burnt-gold troves          
   A swagman’s trawl.       

Each flower’s a thirteen petal
Womb coddling swags
   Of yolky sacs;
   But like jakes-dregs             
It shakes scour-gut aches  
   Through uncareful cattle.    

Flowering done, what’s left
Is scranched bran in a cuff       
Of rusty petals; a swart     
   Stink in a puff –
Tart – of mare’s fart
In the noon heat adrift.       

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© July 2014