Saturday, 31 August 2019

Prorogation is the New Backstop


My righteous fury never will abate
Because it is a ‘feeling’ I confect.
I have my human rights, I must debate
And so must those who chaps like me elect,
Though not with those whose views we must reject
As absolutely vile.  We concentrate
On grown up discourse which has great effect.
My righteous fury never will abate,
The opposition, those who masturbate,
Have no right to complain if they detect
Hypocrisy. My anger has no sell by date,
Because it is a ‘feeling’ I confect.
I raged about the backstop, you suspect
I didn’t really care, but got irate
Because it was the latest cause, correct!
I have my human rights, I must debate
I choose the latest views and then exaggerate
The depths of knowledge, I possess, select
Those facts that suit my case.  I feel hate,
And so must those who chaps like me elect,
Towards those idiots who would reject
That we should stay a weak and vassal state -
Those Little Englanders, whom I detest.
With truth and reason I conflate
My righteous fury.

Saturday, 17 August 2019

Lady Chapel, Ely Cathedral.


There’s no purifying fire, though it’s source, the sun
blazes, somewhere, out of sight,
just purifying light.
The blue above The Fens, Prussian, lapis lazuli, azure,
scattered in the atmosphere, 
contrasting with the grey-gold-white
of limestone lamella, hymenophore,
pours through plain panes, making things clear.

The stone crowd, once gathered in niches, is no more.
There’s only Modern Mary, plump in pleated  gown,
as if months have passed since she conceived,
arms raised to Heaven, eyes down.
And only a few living souls stand, stunned,
gazing in awe,
struck, not by stained, chromatic decoration,
but by destruction, desecration, 
which yet seems cure,
a counterintuitive restoration,
not just of faith in God,
but in the superior skills and determination, 
of men who believed,
though so much of what they achieved
is no longer there.
Now there is only clarity
what is left, laid bare,
peace, calm
flooding through each warped, transparent plane,
creating here and there a lens,
Magnificat Dominum
pouring through
this ‘Ship of the Fens’
this miracle of the warpland plain,
this place, whose space was ever pure,
so that we’re bathed by balm 
the grace that spills across each embrasure.




Sunday, 4 August 2019

After Reading an Article in the Middle of the Night About Dr Seuss, and how to Pronounce His Name.

It is too late, it is no use,
I keep on saying Dr Seuss,
I read your words and hear my voice
And find I simply have no choice,
However much I wish to say
His name the proper German way,
My silly brain will not refrain
From mispronouncing it again. 
It is too late
I have no choice
I simply can’t say Dr Seuss. 

Saturday, 3 August 2019

Paving Over the Cow Paths



Meandering at random in pursuit
Of more of what was sought before and loved,
Does not seem a bad way to make a route.
But fixing these in stone is plainly mad
And a pointless contradiction in terms.
And yet I don’t rejoice, I don’t feel glad,
When cogitating the alternative,
Because I know that those who’d 'pave the way'
And lead their followers to  pastures new,
Are prone to lead the gullible astray.
And worse than a tarred cow path is a road
Paved with good intentions, ill thought through.