Five AM

I own this hour of each day,
(part of my family is settled above),
and I tap-tap away,
in the kitchen’s dumb-hum.

No pant and pad of dog,
no mis-tuned song,
this busy home in a sleep.

With early ticks,
the glassed darkness,
leaves the weather outside,

I am alone,
circling the earth,
it seems,
taking an astronaut’s ride.

Double Trouble

Yellow paint
in paralleled-pairs,
the parking lines
will appear;

all being ‘good’,
bad-parked are slapped,
with a fat fine –
tickets wrapped.

The new parking zone
will span Uck to Ouse,
privatised wardens,
in uniformed blues:

Pacing side streets,
in ‘bounty-hunt’ mode,
leaping on the parked:
‘I stopped to unload!’

Our future is fine,
thirty days to pay up,
but don’t park in Uckfield,
it has just been shut.