Left Of The Pond

some are skating on thin ice!
(Written last March during the Boris crisis. Pic. taken then)

Here, it’s gorgeously quiet,
winter stilless, with only
something in perifery vision
disturbing the peace,
small birds,
devolved from the big picture
regularly checking for
picnic crumbs?

Council-house lawyers
worry me. Learned people,
developmentally fixated;
obsessively engaged
in wastefully searching
for meaningless
pathos-awakening irrelevance
rather than…
this is the quality of my thinking,
from my own visionary mind?

From a distant flat acre,
six centimeters thick,
I’d heard the sound of –
paper being torn? Defying
tectonic plates audibly cracking,
a small gang of biped boatmen
with poles and haul-out hooks,
trusting ice tautness,
are zigzagging on steel
between Juniper bushes.

And I’m feeding tits and robins
cautiously accepting bread,
bathing in the sunshine
that would drown them all,
but for the Earth too,
rotating on tilting axis,
struggling to deliver
the promised new spring.
 
 
 
 Goth:2022