A recent poem I have been working on this week. Essentially it is a description of something I observed and the poem wrote itself.
Next to the surgery
which
used to be someone’s home,
the
bank [built in ‘31] missed out
on
its century of service by fourteen years,
a
digital casualty.
Note
the sale boards have been removed
and
the new signs proclaim wealth management.
But
whose? I wonder this Sunday
after
a Christmas Wednesday,
as
I walk past the locked off parking spaces
where
on public days like this one
the
community used to park.
Their
bin overflows and the gulls
have
had their own wing-ding,
bursting
the black plastic sacks.
Now
the remains of their office party
clutters
the pavement.
A
young greyling gull sidles up,
optimistic,
to glean whatever is left.
I
want to tell it not to bother,
that
the wealthy don’t leave rich pickings,
but
the bird is too young to know
that
no meal is ever free,
then
I realise this is all our futures.
Pretty bleak eh?
The world is changing, communities are under pressure, the ease of the digital is transforming our high streets. We live on line and the fabric of our shared spaces suffers.
As I say the poem wrote itself and all I worried over was the conclusion. Show not tell to the forefront.
Here's Barclay James Harvest, a band I saw a number of times in the mid-70s. This is Gladriel apparently on this, the original recording, John Lees plays the Epiphone Casio guitar that John Lennon played on the concert on the roof - The Beatles final live performance.
Anyway it's a lovely song in its own right.
Here is Titles, I'll let you work out who it is a homage to.
Thought-provoking, summing up the remains of the season perfectly!
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