Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Monday, 3 November 2014
Guess who six, life in the sticks
I watch your sleeping form across the room,
through the open door,
and wonder how it came to this.
You rise and fall as you once did
in those days before we had the extension built.
There is a door where once there was none,
not even one.
Cut through solid timbers and the yielding plaster,
a new space now exists with its own roof
to keep out cruel November wind and rain.
Long past and long forgotten
the rights and wrongs of two T.V.s,
one for the room in which we live
and another for the place were we go to temporarily die,
only to be re-born at the rising of the sun.
You got your way, my darling,
and now I think I hear you gently fart
beneath the blankets but above the sound
of world events as told
by waking men in suits of grey,
the serried ranks of CBS News.
(I am sorry, but R.A.D. Stainforth will not be reading my poems anymore, because Google Blogger has imposed a smoking ban on all posts. He has a cough as well, so it wouldn't have sounded any good in any case. Get ready for the Willow Manor Ball though!)