We live in increasingly interesting times. Our politicians seem intent on ignoring the scientists pleas for action to minimise global warming. Gove has changed his tune on the pesticide that is decimating the bee population, when part of the EU he supported banning it, now we flounder he is all for using it. And the war drags on.
Phew! Here's a poem about getting old.
his hands had aged
in this room
in the late afternoon light
there was no hiding
the pipework of veins
the dry wrinkled skin
and the liver spots
were the icing
on his old cake
Not sure about the last line. I think it needs a different word to old, just haven't found it yet.
Here's a rewrite of an old poem. I have never been satisfied with the ending, you can read it here. Part of me wonders what the significance of the poem is, why am I drawn back to play about with the words? Honestly I do not know.
I used to long to hear the sound of copters
rotors thumping the compliant air
getting louder drawing near
there were times when
such a B-movie rescue
would have suited me
I chose to forget that after the credits roll
the actors return to playing themselves
in the films of their own imperfect lives
bridges are a safer bet
you climb above the trouble
just walk away
I want to end on a positive note, Spring has arrived and this is Steve Ashley.
Until next time.
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