Jean’s gravel route,
no different to ours,
just an over-the-road
distance
…..
I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown
….
All square, one-one,
but, still a loss for The Seagulls:
An inequal result. Stripe-painted
kids’ faces, briefly, unable to pull a smile
…..
I stood, stock, in the road,
arms wide, an amateur Christ,
awaiting another crucifixion,
to be run down, lifted, cross-heist
…..
Waved off sounds,
our wireless re-casts,
‘Uckfield FM’,
over transmission masts
….
Just like Roald Dahl,
The best writer of stories,
I surrender too easily,
To sweet-tooth fairies
Plans made today, to move my shed:
turn, pull, place, via grease-sleeper sled.
Tirfors engaged, off discussed points:
Fears for the shed’s, and my stiff joints
…..
She stands, cold, at Waitrose’s door:
“An immigrant washed-up, on our shore!”
[Is an instantly-fired typed-up-rant:
quick-raged, sick, tuneless, descant]
…..
The stoic Lollipop Lady,
Manor’s stick-wielding boss,
she was out in all weathers,
the snow, rain, and frost.
…..
Yellow lines to be laid, in paralleled-pairs,
Whilst striped-bright police cars patrol unawares.
All being ‘good’, the badly-parked will be slapped,
With a statutory fine: windscreens ticket-wrapped.
The new parking zone will stretch from Uck to Ouse,
Privatised wardens, wearing uniform blues,
Pacing out side streets (in bounty-hunting mode),
Leaping on the line-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.