Peaceful
Remote control racer, dull motorways roar,
a gang of five meeting, one home from next door,
a bass to crack concrete, with drums through a wall,
the scream of fresh children, no longer a crawl.
The tellys on wildly, explode button high,
a wash machine rinsing, not really sure why,
the sound of loud thinking, a jet soars above,
if peace visits Harrow, it darent bring a dove.
Theyre practicing football, (The North Bank and Shed),
those dear little angels shout close to my head,
machine guns, in drill form, set light to the air,
and the corpses of silence hit lawns in despair.
Then a speck of flies scribbling, invisible plans,
draws attention to nature, their maddening danse,
theres a hoot, a coo, lurching, from out of dark-green,
and a chirrup of hatchlings from somewhere unseen.
The Forsythia is egg yolked, the Jews Mallow too,
burnt acer tinged sunshine, is spreading the new,
weve a clothes line for sun dial, and turf strikes the hour,
between paths of a past life, and bluebells in flower.
Ive a honey scent scrawling like Bisto in air,
there are Hyacinth remnants and lavender flare,
crushing warmth of the suns touch, a physical slouch,
as the gardens relaxing, my wickers a couch.
I let drizzle some jotting, some notes onto white,
as the mellow sinks further, and yellow feels right,
then that bloke up the road, with the PA, turns right,
sets his Corsa to earthquake, and batters the night.
A site for sore eyes
Remote control racer, dull motorways roar,
a gang of five meeting, one home from next door,
a bass to crack concrete, with drums through a wall,
the scream of fresh children, no longer a crawl.
The tellys on wildly, explode button high,
a wash machine rinsing, not really sure why,
the sound of loud thinking, a jet soars above,
if peace visits Harrow, it darent bring a dove.
Theyre practicing football, (The North Bank and Shed),
those dear little angels shout close to my head,
machine guns, in drill form, set light to the air,
and the corpses of silence hit lawns in despair.
Then a speck of flies scribbling, invisible plans,
draws attention to nature, their maddening danse,
theres a hoot, a coo, lurching, from out of dark-green,
and a chirrup of hatchlings from somewhere unseen.
The Forsythia is egg yolked, the Jews Mallow too,
burnt acer tinged sunshine, is spreading the new,
weve a clothes line for sun dial, and turf strikes the hour,
between paths of a past life, and bluebells in flower.
Ive a honey scent scrawling like Bisto in air,
there are Hyacinth remnants and lavender flare,
crushing warmth of the suns touch, a physical slouch,
as the gardens relaxing, my wickers a couch.
I let drizzle some jotting, some notes onto white,
as the mellow sinks further, and yellow feels right,
then that bloke up the road, with the PA, turns right,
sets his Corsa to earthquake, and batters the night.
A site for sore eyes

