this cold,hard land
where strange things dwell
old settees piled in a corner
by rotting lock-ups
and cans and bottles
clogging bushes
that are already collapsing
into early winter
while plastic
ragged in the branches
like Tibetan prayer flags
in a silent,alien place
yet,further on,noise comes
as buses snort down roads
that are choked
by cars in slow procession
grinding slowly to a halt
as i halt,back here
where the world is deathly still
in itself
waiting for winter
waiting wearily
for Christmas to erupt
in all the senses
a relentless bombardment
of expectation
and no expenses spared
spare me from this awful apprehension
this hysteria
dwindling down to a lost day
in a lost fortnight
in a drowning Earth
while the poor have no cake
so let them eat
turkey
bred and sliced for the occasion.....dave hobbs