Pride and productivity
like some Northern balm
tint the sky, gild The Triangle
tart as tummy ache,
brutal as the horizon’s gapped teeth
The whippet will not wait for the ditherers,
cloud-chased as disappearing squirrels
Hounds are not bounded by shires, nor bound by tithes
or dulcet cottages - nor even rank terraces,
head-scarf swilling muck and cap swearing air
fouler than cabbage rot
Marshall as one might the marching paramilitary brigades
stiffer than army fabric
bleached, ironed, crucified
peeled and polished
Thou shalt not wrestle
this bugger to the ground
Not with puritanical window-smashing
nor royal gag
This Tyke, this piss-pond beyond heck
this Tup-dance, this Morris meet
the sword-side resolute
Not a chosen few, but fated
like supernumerary spit
or shortness of leg
tapping out the metre of the free
beyond the proud bullshit
or product of some clackety revolution
Let the sun bleed on the honeyed land
where poets sup the mead
of gratifying mortality
fledged like puttering siblings
sired by true parents
lucky enough to enjoy
the milk of kindness
the cuckoo steals
but the lark brings back
Let the learned assume they have a grip
let fools run, netting gossamer
or mouthing brown spit
And stand quietly accepting
that to tell is to be misconstrued
by those who think they think
Because knowing is not words
but lives in signs
of what it is,
not what any purport it should be
Give back the flooded villages
hand the Luddite a hammer
Suck the chemicals out of the land
to cheer the Silent Spring
Let the trees sprout anew
and extinctions be reversed
For as the Jaw’s Harp’s virring
beats us into unforgiving time,
what lost little ensemble
can find the frayed refrain,
the crushed pear or succulent juice
renewed by seasons
supped and slurped
by uncouth babbies
and withered ancients alike?
Only them as what’s not confused
by straight talk, eh?
***