The Secret Lives of Chimney Pots I
Cluttering above huddled rooftops
Of sprawling villages
And shy provincial towns;
Rising sharply amidst swooping
Declinations;
Hesitating when gathering at the
Tangled woodland perimeters of
Outlying greenland bounds,
Jostled apex ridges detach among
Themselves...
When habitually roused from early
Mornings
Newly awakened sounds.
Electrical milk floats whir and
Bustle around manna-strewn,
Cherry-blossomed streets;
Clinking bottles in blue
Plastic crates
Rattle in monotonous unison, as,
Disregarded,
The humming buggy clatters and
Creeps -
Like the lead flashing that skirts
The Stacks,
Where, benched atops -
Resides the secretive brooding
Lives of chimney tops!
Seated and sullen like sombre
Jurors
In considered repose;
Terraced like football fans;
Smugly ensconced above it all.
Starring across, seemingly
Endless,
Crammed-in red brick rows;
Squatting idly alongside
Deserted pavements
Braced by the grey concrete kerbs -
That race the patched-up black
Tarmac roads.
Suddenly! The intrusive whistling
Of the jocund paperboy breaks upon
Your shattered window glass;
The young scoundrel never takes
The welcoming path, trekking
Instead - Over your lovingly nurtured
And well manicured front lawn
Grass!
Like the old shaded Tom he
Stealthily steals...
When bringing the freshly printed
Reams of bad and despondent news:
Heralded within many labored
Rotations
Of his furiously peddled wheels.
For so it is that every working
Day
The greater majority rub the
Gritty sand from out of their
Heavy and weary eyes;
Then, when complying to the
Insistence of the agitated alarm,
Stretch out, yawn, and, like
Orderly troops,
Obediently rise.
The backbone of your economies...
Or so we have heard it said:
The unmentioned un-redoubtables:
Discriminated against, heavily
Taxed -
And constantly bled!
Slowly but slowly harmonic dawns
Sweet, liquid chorus
Abates and lapses...
Replaced by the twittering beaks
Of the many varied and
Vociferous chirping classes.
The smartly booted and suited
Early-riser
Steps out when steadfast front
Doors purposefully open,
Then, with a backward glance,
And mindful that not a sleeping
Soul should be woken,
Making sure doors are carefully
Clicked shut,
Striding briskly away - making
Good his precious time upon foot.
Warming engines, reassuringly
Ticking over,
Begin to reverse down crunching
Washed-gravel drives.
Hollow avenues reverberate and
Echo;
Whilst all the while, as
The mocking incline contrives,
The keep fitter and jogger,
Teeth gritted grimly in pursuit
Of predetermined style,
Stoutly resolved, strive to
Complete
The last gut-wrenching mile.
Copyright © John Fleming | Year Posted 2016
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