'Lovely Day' by Bill Withers

"  . . . then I look at you . . ."

As the feeling starts to die back

in the autumn of youth,

new shoots spring up to flower

as children in proof

that " . . what will survive of us is love . . . "

                                Philip Larkin

Spring morning levels

Daytime comets, sunlit tails,

needling fabric, blue sky trails,

stratospheric isolation,

intent on destination.

Lazy buzzard floating high,

wavily circling, stirring sky,

bent on observation.

Above the tulips, passing by,

idling, zipping hoverfly.

The Flower Club

One rainy day with nothing to do

I decided I would brave the walk

to the village hall, where there wasn't a queue,

for the local Flower Club's 'Roses' talk.

 I entered the hall as the lights were dimming

and realised that I was out of place :

the seats all seemed filled by aging women

and I felt embarrassed to show my face.

So, as one man among fifty matrons,

I asked the 'official' at the door

if it really was only for female patrons.

She said she wasn't entirely sure

but, as you can see, it's totally girls.

Though your clothes are those of a gentleman,

with such long hair and dangling curls

you'll pass quite well as a lesbian.

Passers by

They've often passed my house over the years

walking together, the man and the woman.

Both middle aged, she unexceptional

but he is small and somehow crooked

like a broken twig beneath his always hat.

I've often wondered about their relationship.

Somehow husband and wife seems unlikely

because of his unattractive disablement.

I tend to think of them brother and sister

with her looking after him. Courageous.

I would like to ask them about their connection

but feel it would be intrusive, unwelcome.

Lately they're no longer side by side

but him a few yards trailing behind.

I sense their attachment might be failing.

Sad. Nothing I can do. None of my business.

There's been a miscarriage of justice.

Not some-one wrongly convicted

but some-one wrongfully punished -

not enough for the harm he inflicted.

Another Friday, rain pouring down;

another night in this seaside town

immersed in the usual disco pub

and overwhelmed by this musical hub.

I'm bathing in beer and beautiful women

while soaking in cider with others swimming

against the sad tide with our unlucky looks,

seeking romance outside our books.

I'm drowning in the depths of cleavage,

only saved by the jetsam waistage

floating free from the fishing smacks

till washed ashore on bare white backs.

I struggle to stay afloat all evening

till the lights go up and it's time for leaving.

I really need a personal lifeguard

to stop me pretending to be a ba(sta)rd.

While driving along the dual carriageway

I passed a lady in the cycle lane

whose bike had a loaded luggage rack in front

and panniers full both sides of her rear wheel.

Behind her back were two small children

in tandem. Amazed by the unexpected sight

I braked in awe of her overtaking men.

And then she rode through the red traffic light !

(stopping would need such an effort to start again ?)