The Last Breakfast

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Written August 2021

We sit down together with the last of the left-overs,
Grateful for so much in a world of so little,
Just a cup, mere clay moulded for use,
Not unwanted, not unloved,
Past 'best before', its usefulness done,
Ready for disposal or possibly a make-over,
So we ascend the steps of the scaffold of execution,
While the hangman strides, hands behind his back
As they're tossed into the cauldron that is just a skip,
Shattering on impact with bomb-blasting echo
To become nothing with others in a common grave,
Dismembered, but remembered as bread is broken,
Sharing another cup, another life, and more love
While someone else gives his life for another.
 
August 2021

On leaving our home in Bromley for the last 21 years

 

Yours and Mine

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Written November 2014

There's an aching within, the deep longing of yearning,
Wanting to be with you. Not just flesh and blood,
Shapes and curves, breasts and thighs that are yours,
But the squeeze of arms and the embrace of hugging
Feeling the vibrancy of human touch,
Contiguous bodies electrifying each other
With the nakedness of skin that is yours and mine,

But also the sparkle of eyes focused on me,
The gentlest of smiles, that enigmatic wink,
The giggle, the laugh, knowing what's good for us,
The quickest of wit, the gentle disagreement,
The words of caution and those of praise.
They're gone, and all that's left is that deep longing -
Mine, and maybe yours, generating hope.


November 2014

Valentine's Day 2016

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Written February 2016

Roses wrinkled, violets faded,
Killed off by February frosts.
Chilled to the core
With an emptiness of longing
For what once was
Or might yet be.

But the BBC fills the void,
Lyrical on the source of love,
Expressed by one alongside,
Who grasps a hand
In unspoken reverence,
Demonstrating togetherness
On a day we need not name.
 
February 2016 

Last of the Squirrels in The Elms

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Written January 2013

Xll  Love Birds
 
Bushy with his clippers
Barber shop sharpened;
Nutty, her secateurs
Well worn on the patio;
Wanting to trim the dead wood,
Laughing with merriment
As she packs it in a basket on her head.
 
While Bushy wants it all to grow back again,
But he shaves it off:
Sideburns, moustache and bristling whiskers,
Deferentially beautifying himself,
Advancing to clasp her – not the branch –
With a huge hug, saying
I love you, Nutty.
 


          Xlll  The Chase
 
          Hurrying and scurrying
          Round and round the garden
          Like a frantic squirrel,
          Cheeks puffed out – bursting at the seams;
          Grey-haired, but still nimble enough
          To chase the elusive mate
          Bough to bough, grabbing her tail
          With a twitch and a hitch
          Until he grasps her with a quiver and a shiver
          And then lies down higgledy-piggledy
          Hair undone, dishevelled, scraggly and wet.
          It’s all over
          And he’s left wondering
          What the fuss was all about.
 
                                                                                                              

XlV  Time-keepers
 
They are a people whose future is all within,
Whose today is yesterday
Before they know what’s happened;
Turning the page of the calendar
Checking their watch,
Winding the clock, setting the alarm
Hostage of the trains that must run on time,
Revolving round the time-table for the 162,
But forgetting that the world goes by,
When all we do is live by the body-clock,
Innate rhythms of uncontrolled aldosterone
Regularly pumped into the blood-stream
To make the day begin.
And when the pump stops, that’s it.
 

January 2013 
 

More poems about the squirrels:

Squirrels in The Elms

More Squirrels in The Elms