Those tan-blessed scaffolders
have left their clamp bags on
sun-mowed grass & graves – no
mounds – time has eroded line
& citation – dead worn down –
whirr of battery-driven tools
rub this churchyard’s grace –
I sip my coffee as murmurings
of a podcast fits my ears – I
am not bolted to this bench –
time will move me on to graze
on other thoughts – time mine
to erect as a lost cause – No
bags of clamps to throw aside

A parquet-floored space
of set-back tables – in
Chelsea bald men squark
& auld men stumble as a
prelude to a game – our
tribes are hooked in to
Instagram likes [before
this game they like all
that online hate] – all
that can be connected &
shared is there [& here
is now afore a match] –
My son is eight minutes
away – time is measured
over each half in pints

There is an almost-tinge
of green on this field –
grass recovers as blades
combine to cheat my eyes
& even those leaf-weight
of trees offer a retreat
from autumn’s surrenders
& hold tight for now – I
am playing my part under
curls of dumbbells & my
fasts – aged body is our
pension pot – I say – to
no one – except you – we
are ill-defined by every
part we retain – teeth –
hair – skin – a tinge of
health – we are so well?

On a man-made mound
[unknown origins –
we guessed] we laid
a blanket over that
rise – views across
both Sussex coast &
fields – an itch of
flies patrolled our
stiched borders – I
poured teas & pawed
at you – skin-fawns
in thoughts & naked
lust – Ramblers dig
in their poles with
each step [we press
into our laid path]