The telephone lines hum even on a clear still day.
When I lie on my back and no wind disturbs the leaves,
I can still hear the call of whispered conversations,
Along the copper wired humdrum messenger .
Margaret is pregnant again....joy or sorrow ?
Johnny Underwood died last night ...drunk or sober?
“Don’t say that on the phone you never know who might be listening”
And Ellie the ever eavesdropping Post mistress indignantly cries,
“How dare you insinuate I’m listening”
The vibrating copper linking souls to an engaged tone.

The canal today is mirror deep,
Reflecting all the trees that weep.
The grass is fridge frost white,
From the cold of last night.
The trees are dripping snot clear tears,
Sparkling in the sunshine glare.
An empty ***** bottle on the side of the road,
In the distance shines Morse code.
The houses in sharp relief,
Like stricken ships on a reef.
On this winter morning all fears,
Are lost like unwanted souvenirs.

Each day I cross the canal,
With its corrugated water,
To the recently harrowed field.
A leather jacket laid on the green grass of the dunes.
Your curls spill on the hedgerows.
Propped on my elbow I dive headlong,
Into twin infinity pools.
Lost in twining souls of string.
A girl balling the wool,
As I hold it gently between outstretched supplicant arms.
We were seventeen.

Each day I cross the canal to the harrowed field,
Where the now winter wheat delicately erases,
The leather jacket on the grass of dunes.
It was once a summer,
Where no world anchored us,
No past taunted us,  
No demands listened to,
On the cusp of transition.
We loved as never again,
When we were seventeen.



Each day I cross the canal to a green field.
The colour warms a winter morning.
Blowing into cupped cold hands,
No longer brings heat,
Only faint clouds of breathtype mist.
The cold invades my toes and fingers.
There are things I must remember.
Next time I will wear my leather jacket,
I’m no longer seventeen.

I had a midlife crisis yesterday,
So I bought a yacht.
Now I’m going to live to be over a 100,
Isn’t that amazing?
Maybe I should repeat it,
Every decade or so.
Just to keep it topped up,
Like a pay as you go phone.
This is the secret to eternal life.

On the Non Fiction shelves,
One Thousands and One Places to visit before you die.
Or for those for whom time is short,
One Hundred and one Places to visit before you die.
And then for the imminent,
The Place to be,
A life to be measured in coffee table books,
Full of opinion and failure,
Just live .

I contemplated becoming a suicide bomber.
Even took the class,
The instructor said “pay attention”
“I’m only going to show you this once “
But I was lighting a cigarette
And missed the crucial part,
I should give them up,
Cigarettes will **** you ...you know.
And then there are the choices,
What religion to align to,
Looking at the A la Carte religions,  
It’s so diverse.
One offers eternity in hell,
With some imp sticking a red hot poker,
Up your ***.
Another offers 70 odd virgins,  
Think of the expense,
Hair do’s, make up,birth control,  
And then, them all talking at once.
I’d almost go for the imp which was the least popular choice.
I was just looking for a woman in stockings,
Wearing heels,
Of easy virtue,
Who would lie to me,
And tell me I’m great.
Maybe that’s Calvinism.
So I’ve put these plans on hold.
Next week I might become a fireman,
I’m a bit fickle like that.