The future here is declared through
the slow waving hand of a child.
Silver hair shivering at a shop window,
A crackle of voice received—
Approaching tide on sand.
The Automatonical Replacement of the Broom
Driven somewhat dangerously by Dennis,
(well versed in recent advances in health and
safety, but blissfully unaware of his surroundings),
With one arm hanging from the cockpit
It fires the sound of
With a thick-bristled
Flushing out culprits
With a water cannon
Hidden between bared teeth.
Keeping the road
Like a leashed
Alsatian following its
Prey, it threatens
With a Blizkrieg sound
And a whirl of spray,
Driving the unwanted underground.
Tomorrow it’ll be unmanned and unremitting,
under the influence of silicone chips,
unbending to resistance—
But today the hi-vis jacket coughs
and scratches in the cockpit—
to the scratchy tune from the cockpit radio.
‘A spectre is haunting Europe’
Between four walls
A young migratory thing
Nervous little thing
The wise, tall grass pays no attention,
Too busy steeping a head in the glass stream
But the teenage gulls complain,
Missing out on the action—
Above old mourning doves
Occupying a bench;
Settled like book-ends, in love.
If one should die,
what happens to the other?
Not far away, just a step from
Royal Gala walls—
The pungent smell of coffee, bitter, sweet;
Sliding from a cafe on a narrow street;
Melts amongst a grey and steady stream.
The foreign exchange—
The feuds of family,
The baby-boomer stealing
'Show your hand too early
Your daughters will steal it.'
Steer toward economic viability—
Take the advise of tarot.
‘Can you hear a distant march?’
(The gravediggers are here.)