Let the self seeding crocus mia beguile,
burying our heads in Sunday papers
taking the coloured supplements
to heart,
whilst in the shade forgetting others suffering,
again we turn inwards,
dreaming of strawberries and clotted cream
and strolling to the local ligne roset,
these middle class values
ostensibly vouched by the world
yet no longer made in our image.

He died in a shell of
his own making,
no runaway excuses or
afforded sorrow, to wash
his depleted crown or
balm his hand.
Sackcloth and ashes
paraded;
despatch due his rainy Sunday.

The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue, 
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving  '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy  corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.

Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.

Mortified he draws a blank
the modicum of kindness
wears a knowing grin,
cobwebs in the morning
jostle with fading stars.
Cold farm comfort
with buttermilk and soda bread
the Herdsman plays the waiting game.

The fading state lines spells memories,
as the rain comes down,
a clutch of fallen gratitude
may possibly release the pain.
Spent embraces dissolve
those hard shouldered highways.
Let your tumblers of Tennessee cry resolution,
as the doe eyed Gypsy Inn
dims low,
receding as this one night stand.

She's my errant woman
colouring all before her,
weaving her fallen braids.
A burgeoning ghoul from nearside of the borders,
presents tansy as a welcoming gift,
under cover of nights guard.
Precociousness is flung,
celestial mothers to be
are lost to the fitfullness of her burning vex.