The Lefty Vicar’s Dilemma (psychopathy?)

“Man, oh not men” let’s stick with abstract thought,

I did not answer God to deal with this,

I am above these petty things, and nought

That has its basis in real life brings bliss. 

Who are these local people who don’t die

On whom I needs must waste my weekly prayers?

I cannot love my real neighbours, I

Love man, in general and the world’s cares

Are mine to wrestle with, not petty, local

Problems which affect my mere parish, now.

I cannot love my neighbour, he’s yokel,

Slow and dull and impervious anyhow

To help. Give me notional man, instead,

The neighbour farthest flung I cannot dread.

When Drax is in Mist.

Because I cannot see it, then it isn’t there.

All there is is the river and the field on the other side.

It does not tower above the Georgian trees

Gargantuan concrete blot,

It is not waiting near the grazing pigs, looming.

Because I cannot see it, then it is not where

The distant grass touches the sky, as the tide

Runs in below the willows and the grey seas

Swirl with the river silt beside the plot

Strewn like a pigsty under the blooming

Sloe, white blossom littering the ground.

Because I cannot see it, then I do not care,

I am in a children’s book, where the river is wide,

And all the ducks are swimming and the only sound

Is that of small boys with pink legs and fat knees,

Singing.

Because I cannot see it I stand and stare.

So Different from Neglect

I wonder when it settles on a place,

That air of ‘nothing matters much’

One finds about a house and in its grounds,

So different from neglect, neglect without disgrace. 

I wonder if it creeps up gradually

Or if one wakes and finds it there,

That air of ‘nothing matters much’

That fills the space

With gentle, silent sounds.

To whom does it belong?

Does it just emanate

From happy souls who live in sunlit peace?

And can they find the energy to concentrate?

Or does it work the other way about?

And bathe with calming balm until no trace

Of tension or anxiety can touch

The minds of those who dwell within the bounds

Of ‘nothing matters much’.

Tory Party

They lie, still scattered in the long dead weeds,

The remnants of a once important church,

Which in its day had grown so vast and broad

Its old foundations had begun to sink.

Its congregation did not spot its needs,

Its slipping went unnoticed, save one lurch

Leftwards, but shifts like that could be ignored,

No need for restoration, or to think

Of consequences. Further damage caused

By cracks and widened joints might weather well,

And concrete, reinforced and grey cement

Would save the day, if such a day should dawn.

So nobody took stock and no one paused,

As first the slates and then the timbers fell,

Though one old warden sang a sad lament,

His fellows turned their backs, quite full of scorn.

The congregation quickly moved away,

They felt a sadness, but did not despair,

Knowing it was something more than pale stone

They loved about the place, an old idea

Of something greater than themselves. They say

The old place might be built again, with care,

But better leave it scattered here, alone,

A broken monument to those who sneer,

And won’t hold fast to what is proven good,

Preferring to destroy with kitten heels,

By chipping at the pillars and the vaults

And ploughing blindly on oblivious,

While beetles eat away the ancient wood.

Yes, better leave it be, for it reveals

A clearer lesson on our human faults

insidious.

Jon Snow’s Prayer

The white people have gathered here,

I wish that they would disappear,

They dress in Union Jacks, they shout,

Each one of them a vulgar lout,

They love democracy, I fear, 

Please Lord, don’t let them get too near,

I can’t suppress the urge to sneer.