I dreamt of playing Rugby for Wales
Last night. Were broadcast Premiership scores
I heard drifting off to sleep keys for doors
To lost desires? My mind unveils
Itself and I’m shocked awake. Details
Fade, but whistfulness lingers, gives me pause.
What deeply buried thing could be the cause
Of this? My mind’s conjured fairy tales
Far beyond anything in real life.
Am I mourning a youth that never
Existed when it was within my grasp?
Or was the game a metaphor for strife
That exists in the present forever
Entombed in the subconsciousness’s clasp?
The gravel path spares footwear from the wet
That slickly glistens to the right and left
Pooling twixt the mole hills, plotting the theft
Of any boots that chance to stray and get
Stuck in the mud. But Bertie doesn’t let
It cramp his style, he bounds around the cleft
Tree felled by winter’s storm, his path the weft,
The warp the avenue of bare trees set
On either side. As he weaves snuffling,
Bushy tailed grey squirrels slide around
Trunks and run up, or slip under threadbare
Rhododendrons, silently shuffling
Out of sight. But Bertie is no sight hound.
The squirrels might just as well not be there!
Let out of the crate where he’s spent the night
Bertie steps gingerly onto the grass,
A one dog furry cloud he makes his pass
Across the lawn collecting moisture right
Before he squats, squirts, adds a bit to spite
The green, lifts his tail, shits then licks his arse,
Seeks out the birds whose song drowns out the cars
On the motorway, barks and they take flight.
Honour satisfied, he heads back inside,
Takes a running jump and I take a blow.
He slobbers on my face my neck my hair
Banishing sleep as he lies alongside
Delivering garden dew with a show
Of enthusiasm which I don’t share.
Traffic-belched vampire fumes acidified
The air, drained life from stones atop the slope
Where the Acropolis bones, picked bare, mope,
Mourning the empire that in its pride supplied
Phidias the wherewithal to provide
The host of wonders lain within its scope.
Truly temples are graves for human hope
Shattered aspirations clawing, bestride
The ancient seat of power diminished
By looting justified as protective
Custody for remains that survived for
Millennia once history finished
With the glory that was Greece, effective
Anointment of London’s glories in store?
Where are they now? The people who once touched Our lives but then disappeared from view To enjoy endless time off in lieu, Recompense for the numbered days spent clutched To our bosoms, before love’s stems were scutched, Pounded to pieces by rough edges too Diamond hard for years to wear them through To soft toleration of being hutched Together, sharing chores and life’s little Triumphs, as we have done for decades since. It’s not regret exactly but sometimes Chance will start a chain of thought and it’ll Awaken dormant feelings and evince Reflection that the bell tolls not, it chimes.