Galloping Children

Galloping children

The ageing grey tenement released

it’s children on a fine day; bright, clear skies

and gentle breezes, one of those perfect days

in childhood, often recalled in fond

memories.  A white van pulled up and

my father and uncle, finished their

workday early for once, simply scooped

up all who played on the street, bundled

them in the back where they bounced around

happy in the mystery of where they

might land.  When their drive was done, released

once more, they looked around, wide eyed.

A stream rushed and tumbled over great

granite rocks while Scots pines soared so tall

and proud.  Specks of white fluff moved slowly

across the green heights of the hills above.

“They’re sheep,” my father explained before

turning to his brother, adding, “children

need a gallop every now and then.”

 

love is

Love is
an old biscuit tin lid
with a painted scene
so lovely in it’s own
quaint way that you
can but smile at such
pretty panoramas
until the day comes
while wandering the
roads you drive round
one more bend and
there it is, the self
same scene exactly
as perfectly projected.

The electric jolt
of shared memory
shocks you both
into silence as
quietly, with no
apparent thought,
you reach over to
hold hands again.

the vanities of ages

The vanities of ages

This being vain about our times

is surely now a vice,

where before it became a curse.

Imagination, memory, forsaken

denial triumphs.

A catastrophe of the age,

this reckless assumption

that now is surely

the best of times,

history finally ended.

All of now,

thus made righteous,

these being unlike

any other times.

No illusion this,

to blind us.

No bubble this

to ever burst.

Our centurions will forever

guard our walls,

ever watchful for the

return of the barbarians

without,

secure in the knowledge

there are none

within.