[For Clair May, On Our Wedding Anniversary 31st December 2015]
This gone decade, avowed, witnessed, signed,
your white dress, my suit, hung, long-aligned.
Our large shared-bed (often slept-distrait),
is spirit-levelled by deep dream-spates.
Write those pledges (our private conceits):
Words on pillows and cotton-rich sheets.
Marriage slept in a bed of our choice,
Our vows renewed in our sleep-shared voice.
I’m Tootles the Taxi,
I’ll give you a ride,
Just log on to Uber
Then jump inside.
Just watch the app,
You’ll see how unfair,
Profits no object,
Do I bleedin’ care?
So, did Corbyn bend far enough down,
as the ‘last stand’ bled into the ground?
How many of us tilted our heads,
with any intelligent reverence?
Media streams fed us the parade,
more heads unbowed on trumpets’ fade;
Murdoch’s press gang want the neck
of those willing warfare into check.
Absorb the reports, and tattle-tales,
learn nowt off right-wing paper-trails.
As our left-over state snaps cleaned, dry,
we’ll all bend to a painful ‘good-bye’.
We sip tea on Sunday,
Checking house prices,
A washed-up crisis.
As values grow,
In the buy-to-let game,
Thousands of people
Are homeless, again:
This coast has become
A cemetery of souls.
Papers quote the mayor,
As the Lesbos bell tolls.
So we won’t buy
In Europe, after all,
Holiday homes being
The first to fall.
Let us sip tea,
As the East meets the West,
And our cheap values,
She sat, side-on,
Unnoticed, except chat,
Mobile to head,
Hidden by hat:
‘Yes, that’s right,’
Her one-sided talk.
‘She doesn’t recall
her fall, on the walk.’
The cubicle, walled-in,
Compression of soul,
Her phone call’s distance
Puts Dementia on hold.