I long for a ghost to greet me here,
halfway across the rust red bridge..
Dementia Tax is coming,
unless you’re so struck,
then you’re a lucky one,
as you won’t give a f*ck.
The words
‘under contrails’
rounded on me,
those raised scars..
I sat with care
on a wide sawn stump,
it cut back
by an oxidised blade..
A boot-sucked dropdown
and through Views Wood
across a scuffed bridge
and a rank ditch in flood
…/
I am not Northern enough
to be a radio poet,
not a McGough, a McMillan,
or a Normal kinda bloke …
Friday lunchtime
and a tall pint of Guinness,
I enter the calories –
two hundred added…
Saint Theresa knows what is good for us now –
she sings ‘Hallelujahs’ and takes a low bow …/
“Remaindered on Amazon,
an unread tome,
that Tory horror story:
‘The Manifesto’…”