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Poem
Swept up into piles; everywhere 
Abouts; in collected heaps all 
Around.               
It is almost as if the drab 
Streets were strewn with the 
Precious wealth of King Solomon's 
Gold!                                    
How it seems so far back, when, at 
Springs nagging behest, those
Cautious tips, encouraged by 
Warming beguilement of new winds, 
Gingerly unwound                         
To reveal those never-before-seen 
Leaves;                               
But their sap, like my zest, has 
Run dry;
Shuffling disconsolately to and fro 
As those of us, that, in our 
Unnoticed maudulin, have grown 
Steadily more old:-  
As if Hardrada's slain warriors,
Covered by their cracked shields, 
Lifeless and fallen they lie.                              


A flock of racquous Starlings,
Scuttering downwards, noisily
Alight
On the stripped branchs of a 
Diminished and abject tree;
Although a sizeable band, growing
Daily, hardly a paused murmuration 
Dropped from flight...
Now I know another Autumn is 
Nearly done.
I note the resounding emptiness of 
The wide avenue compares favorably 
With the compressed and leaden sky;
The sudden intervention of an 
Appealing thought, and it occurrs
To me,
That, if I were as swift as 
Fleet-footed Leonidas then maybe
I too, this desperate day,
Could outstrip the retreating
Shadows of this disconsolate Sun?


Alas...I am aging with every
Approaching Winter, pattern 
Baldness spreading across my 
Thinning crown;
A body can feel a cold dampness in 
This sort of air...
Then - an involuntary shiver! 
Perhaps unwelcomed memories of
Many a wasted year...
Thinks I with a rueful frown;
In the minds eye a glimpse 
Of the ferocious Wolf slipping 
Quietly through the half-open gate -
Here he once roamed in all his
Perfect savagery!
And, standing admidst the vestiges
Of a former great nations 
Squandered wealth, to which 
many sentimental hearts still 
Adhere,
To wonder what the patient Saxon
Should make at the sight of such 
Frenzied lameness...
The ruination of this his once 
Untamed and wild estate?


That ancient Saxon full knew.             
He knew of cruel hardship, of all  
Essential things that so engaged 
Him,                                    
His pressing needs, his Thanes 
Daily bread;
Though of heady aspirations...he   
Had but few.                                    
He knew of the devastaing blight 
Of sweltering drought,
He knew of the tipped rivers 
Flooding swell;                         
But the old Saxon? ...he just 
Re-doubled his efforts - and took it 
Manfully on the chin!                            
For when the hardy Saxon undertook
To do a job it would usually happen 
That he did it well.                                      
 

And what of his countless, long since
Ignored, secluded and wooded dells, 
His dusky, hollowed glades?
Deep inside: trapped sunlight still 
Floating liken a glassed surface 
Upon a pond;
Once, therein, that Saxons 
All-consuming hours taken up by the 
Resounding crunch of the ever eager 
Blade!
And were it truly ever was this
Humongous supposed repository
For Englands "Green Man"? Ditto 
For the fabled Unicorn recorded 
By the minstral balladeer's 
Luteing song;
Ancient Greeks did say that only
The gentle and pensive maiden
Had the power to coax such a 
Timid beast: one of many wild
Wraiths, emblazoned on many a regal 
Shield, that do unashamedly beguile 
Throughout our legendary history!                                      


Our mundane present now a sad 
Parody of melancholic destitution; 
As if a Summer laid to rest...and, 
Thus, finally, we reluctantly 
Grieve.
The dismal plink, plink, plinks
Of trickling water dripping into
The roadside drain;
If that stoic Saxon had any woes 
He would have no time to lend to
Idle moments wasted dawdling 
Among dead leaves.
Where now Wodan, his many other
Gods? His charioteering tales and 
Warring stories not even 
Half-forgotten memories that only
Befuddled minds of lunatics might 
Mutter.
How resplendant the rusting gasworks
Appears, as, behind her looming tanks, 
Sol's disintegrating orb wearily 
Slinks;
Who would deny, at such instants, 
Much dimming beauty can be found... 
Even inside a crowded towns huddled
Clutter.


The low streetlamps, mounted like 
Matt pearls, beginning, cautiously, 
To reignite;
Predictably this awakens some 
Roosting birds...some of which,
Dutifully, begin to sing.
A muddled obliqueness, inherent
On varying angles, converging
On the temporary juxtapositions 
Invented by the electric bulbs 
Deceitful light;
And although I have never felt much 
Of a compulsion towards sentimental 
Reminiscing, 
Or to seek solace in the comforting 
Familiarity of a mothers 
Romantic recollections, to which we 
All sometimes cling, 
I grope like a blind man...as if 
Reaching out into the foaming 
Darkness intent on finding 
Something essentially quintessential 
That I instinctively sense is so 
Oddly missing.




To be continued...
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