Saturday, 28 December 2019


Grout for those people who have never had to undertake any tiling work is the cement used to fill the spaces between the individual tiles. All will be become clear when you read this poem:

an empty ferry – pre Christmas
endless football on every screen
the eye cannot escape
the moving image

the six men
who compromise
the other drinkers in the bar
have reached that point in the evening
when it is possible to talking tiling
and just how very forgiving grout can be

we lag behind
but stay to close the bar 
and sing on the stage

I honestly have to admit I have never considered the mercy of grouting but life is long and who knows what you'll encounter...

Here is a revision, you can read the last version here.

It took five working days to do for the house,
one implacable machine of cold force did it in,
supplied as it was with an endless chain
of hard lorries to magic away the evidence.
The wallpaper sloughed off
all those exposed inner spaces,
at least the rain kept the dust down
if not the sounds of the building’s death.
After that they scraped the naked earth,
removed half the garden, most of the lawn,
demarcating the dimensions of the car park.

The flats rose quickly after that.

What's changed?
The rubble now is magic-ed away rather than disappeared and there is a space before the final line.
They seem worthwhile changes.
Here's some more of the late, lamented Randy California, and his wondrous Spirit.

Until next time.

No comments:

Post a Comment