" . . . some corner of a foreign field . . ." - RB

As I walked out one midsummer evening
away from the city and up on the Downs,
the sky was still blue and the sun still shining
and the warm air full of nature's sounds
of birds and bloody mosquitos whining.

Then a different sound from a nearby meadow !
A group of people were sprawled on the grass,
young adults playing guitar and fiddle
and one even singing and shuffling a dance
while children played Pig in the Middle.

An idyllic scene that I carried with me,
buoyed by the vision of family pleasure,
all through the work of the following week
till again I had time and weather and leisure
to hopefully take another peek.

Who knows ? Perhaps it wasn't those people
that left their litter there revealed.
Perhaps there had been some other string band
to spoil that corner of a non-foreign field
that is unfortunately England.

Just wait a little longer, Thomas Hardy:
the aspirin will thin your blood, not heart,
while further ageing further thins desire
as you try to get ready to depart.

Socrates spurned the throbbings of noontide,
grateful to be free from that indignity,
knowing they will in all of us subside
and leave the love of youthful beauty quite lust free.

My mother told me I never should

let a boy know I think he looks good.

So now when I go to some boyband's gig,

dressed up all sexy and fired by a swig

of vodka, I really grab at the chance

to shout that I love them and hope they glance

my way in the crowd and see that I'm there,

jump down to get me and answer my prayer.

But after it's over, on the way home,

I know it's just pipe dreams and all alone

in my bedroom I realise how I'll be glad

to meet in my town some presentable lad

who'll love me and help me to bring up our kids,

be faithful and work hard to bring in the quids.

I still go to gigs 'cos it's something to do

but look for the boys in the crowd for the few

possible partners till I find the one

I can tell to his face that he's more than just fun.

From a newspaper report

Poor kid ! He didn't deserve to die.
That was too much. Just unlucky to crack
his head on the ground when he was hit.
Punched. Could have happened to anyone.
But he certainly wasn't poor, or rather,
his family wasn't, what with him going
to a top public school. What a waste.
But what an attitude. Trying to put
his attacker down, metaphorically, verbally.
Seeing the other guy as an ignorant pleb.
Knowing his own superiority, bred into him
all through his childhood - family, school,
sports, clubs, societies, all his friends.
But what a stupid thing to say. Hadn't yet
learned properly to keep such things unsaid.
Known but unsaid among people like himself.
"One day you'll work for me."

The journey

Just focus on the road ahead
and glance the views on either side;
no need to hurry but instead
enjoy the experience of the ride.
Respect the other vehicles' rights
to use the carriageway as well
and, when it's dark, switch on your lights.
Restrain the horn and try to quell
impatience when the traffic's stuck.
When breakdowns happen, then you need
to ask for help; don't count on luck.
Go forward, not where others lead.
The rearview mirror is very small;
it hardly needs any use at all.

Sky high

The east wind cold but the March day dry
and insistent light being dragged away,
I straggled home from allotment hours
and saw an event I'd not seen before.

There was something happening in the sky:
not the mass of a murmuration
but a cruciform swarm, black against blue,
a hundred at least or even two.

Black crosses swooping, spiralling, looping,
gliding and sliding, diving, stooping,
the dark cloud drifting away then back
as the birds intermingled a whirling pack.

Then I noticed that some were leaving,
heading off in different directions,
sometimes a threesome but mainly a pair
heading home to goodness knows where.

How strange, I thought, what's going on
as the avian couples drifted away.
And then it struck me after a pause -
of course, speed dating for jackdaws.

At the exit

Jammed in the crush at the disco exit

and pressed against a pert young lady

whose cleavage I'd admired all evening,

I whispered to her how nice her breasts were.

She gave no acknowledgement or reaction

but her friend beside her got very upset -

"How dare you talk about my friend's breasts !

You should be ashamed of yourself, you arsehole !"

"It was meant as a compliment, nothing more.

Just like you've got very nice legs."

"Oh." She huffed and looked away.

The logjam shifted and we squeezed outside

like coloured toothpaste from the tube.

I watched them walk ahead of me

then went my usual own way home.

I hadn't noticed her legs before.

They weren't anything special.