Indecision

Do I really need to move my car

or shall I take a chance and risk it?

Portslade might be a bit too far

and I might end up with a ticket.

I'd have to make apologies to the group

and scuttle down a busy crowded pavement

but better that than end up in the soup

and owe a silly thirty smackers payment?

Crows

They know the slow solemnity of earth
ungainly labouring to pace across
the ground and feed. They strain to flap escape
from passing hominids, a cat or fox
and slog through Spring and Summer building nests
and rearing young. Sex is a moment's touch.
So now in early Autumn's failing sun
when these dour corvids soar and wheel
high in the wind, playing with gravity,
surely they cannot help but  feel elated.

No need to worry. You can do it.
If everyone else can, so can you.
It won't be easy getting through it
but it's certainly something you have to do.

You always knew it would come to this
but also thought it too far away
to bother about. Now here it is.
You're going to die today.

Who is Maurice?

Mid-summer solstice, Highdown Hill,
with sunshine fading
the worn blue hem of the crinoline sky
and tired trees shading
the spreading stain on the grass still dry

enough for sitting on until
the solstice dancing
begins. Soon tribal uniforms appear
like lamps enhancing
the darkening scene and bright colours spear

the lowering gloom. The rising chill
is warmed by glowing
fantastic fluttering tatter coats
and kerchiefs showing
the dancers lit by the moon which floats

gibbous above the path uphill.
The tribes are coming,
the savage hordes of famed morris men
and women humming
accordion tunes to be ready when
the squeeze box wails to show their skill :

heeling and toe-ing,
to-ing and fro-ing,
forward and backing,
struck sticks clacking,
hopping and skipping,
bobbing and dipping,
expertly pacing their dancing drill.

At last the music and dancing petered out ;
stillness drowned the final goodbye shout ;
the vibrant gaucho colours leaked away ;
an end must come to even the longest day.

Exactly what we celebrated isn't clear
but any excuse for joy is welcome
at the sad point of the year.

Council swimming pool

Skinny and old
I feel the cold

While waiting for the taxi brousse to leave
the gare routiere, my rucksack roped on top,
my pallid wealth raised hopes of sales among
the numerous street hawkers veining the crowd.
Regretfully declining proffered food,
dark glasses, watches ("one for the other arm?"),
I noticed at the back of the long line
of minibuses, touts and ticket huts
a group of men more ragged than the rest.
This was black Africa where one man's white
sports shoes mocked many sporting none, barefoot
among the dirt and litter, dry just then,
and any flashy watch churned envy
among the unemployed unoccupied
waiting for lady luck to change their lives.
My group of men appeared a level down
in squalor even from the norm with shirts
unwashed and trousers stained and torn as if
no women organised their lives. Just then
a well-built man, erect but past his prime,
parted the crowd, a cubic cardboard box
so huge and heavy-looking on his head
it strained his face and threatened his dignity.
Two of my group of paupers took his load
both of them struggling to lower it until,
once upon the ground, it was surrounded
by the rest of the group expectantly.
I shuffled closer, curious as to what
the box contained and inadvertently
locked eyes with one of those whose prize it was.
I palmed and shrugged my question and beckoning
hands encouraged me to join them all
chattering in a circle round the box.
Then just as I advanced, a matronly
woman severed the circle, knife in hand,
and started to attack the cardboard lid.
Excitement rose as she pulled the cardboard back
revealing - CRABS, monsters, caked in mud
but obviously alive, at least the ones
on top, menacing their claws and crawling
to escape. No chance. The men brought wicker tubs,
truncated cones, and filled them from the box,
covering the seething contents with a sack.
They lifted the heavy tubs by their rope straps
to wear them rucksack-like upon their backs
and marched off jauntily into the town
presumably to sell their share. My man
grinned as he passed, proud of his load and job,
his dirty working clothes irrelevant.
He gave the thumbs-up sign and left. I climbed
aboard the bus, also irrelevant to
the daily life of which I was not part.

It's right old folk should be depressed
now Heaven's relegated to myth;
no haven now for those oppressed
by the sad decline to death.

Less superstitious, atheistic,
we suffer still the pains of illness,
so scientifically fatalistic
where ignorant faith was bliss.

Now fearful of what future's left
and vainly struggling to cope,
without the promise of after-life
we haven't even hope.