“It was reported pigs
were moved to safety”
as Olives Meadow [&
lowly places] readied
river defences / Bags
of sand had been set
to safeguard that fine
dry cleaners down on
Bell Walk [no relation]
Locals dozed [steeled]
for damp renewals of
a [now] normal trouble
as my ex’s shed [sorry –
‘office’] sat tormented /
Such sudden erections
should be kept high up
[to miss wet torrents of
our flood-thrusted Uck]
For @Dru_Marland (Blog)
Here – almost – an immolated whale
found bare – beached and dry
She is still – no stuttering breaths
of engine or pumps – cold dead
Almost a mounted catch on display
No slightness – no sway – no slippings
by lullaby currents or crosswinds
off loosely tied mooring ropes
For once – barefooted – landlocked –
awaiting brushes and touches below
as they look for ingress and pitting
from galvanic action – They mutter
as they chalk up indicative lines
on her rubbed clean underside
You agree to fixing sacrificial anodes
Done – then you are lifted with a rush
as your craft is back to old waterways
for another thousand days of drifting
It is a valorised thing –
according to Tesco’s
stuck clock –
it keeps all minutes
at ten past each hour
An upturned claw on top
of the brewery’s
brick chimney
sits finger-ready to grab
electrical strikes
as charged forklift trucks
whirl and rattle
quick around that
barrel-high yard
to meet loading outs
and unloading empties
where white smoke
from Jenner’s pipes
almost declare rogue
Popish thoughts
without bonfire boys
in that lazy town of
timeless martyrs
Men with beards –
each worth a tall story –
gather in cafes –
some sat high inside –
some sit outside
under chalked signs
How to tell such saints
and vagrants apart?
Hipsters and tramps
trading shit for kicks –
that stink of piss marks
their short-distance
The Ouse runs up and in
muddied and quick –
as if time’s rule
has been put in reverse
whilst so-special shops
sell out of bow ties
and string
to men and women
who prefer to spend
their Lewes Pound
– Keeping it local
they also voted for
One Nation Conservatism
If you stand still
for long enough
on Cliffe Bridge
the world and his wife
will pass you by –
ten times –
in both directions
On tidal urges
from her river’s mouth –
and in unseen particles
from a local incinerator –
all that Lewes renounces
does – in time – return
Pinned to https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/
I tripped on a snake
coiled into the form
of fixed turns –
wrestled into itself
by its history of twines –
once factory-whipped
into rope – once born
to a pull of sureness –
to hefts – to shore ties
by long-known named knots
which avoid slippages –
Salt was my second skin
The Himalayan Balsam’s scent
clogs – a laundry swill of smells –
lingering – invasive – out-of-place –
underlining the call to action –
Since its foolish introduction
it’s no longer welcome here
Almost sticky – swollen with pollen –
it waits with near-primed seeds
until it fires ripe-wide explosions
finding further incursions
Balsam Bashing – its removal –
is now a nationwide fixation –
The bent stem-cutters – the pullers –
are impatient traditionalists
who tug – with gardening gloves –
working hard at their final solution
