Their credo, curb this gutter life,
a VIP is coming by, Daimler drifting,
wafted waving, sighing -
why gracious calmly flutter, slide,
to please these hordes,
flags responding to that side?
Strange new fit my corrugations,
secreted stash of old-life snaps,
long ago, perhaps a week,
when she died, and shifted out,
tenancy her name, just the son.
Ironic, as a monarchist;
would she have moved me
at the council’s bid -
standing on my recent home,
paved bunting wings to flitter out?
She would doubtless disapprove,
layabout should get a job,
no dignity, streets mucking up.
Care for her, employ my due,
love-undertaking till another
took the rôle, me left bereft.
They cleared the flat and home
became new slab, street corner stone,
with blanket coverage of press,
independent, sun and star,
guardian of my troubled rest.
The bedroom swept, their car passed on,
my plot resumed, though box was
skipped, along with mother’s photograph.
She missed that visit, as did I;
her box undisturbed, mine recycled,
both her life and mine.
Stephen Kingsnorth (born 1952, Bromley, south London), has retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, following the onset of Parkinson’s Disease. He has had pieces accepted by a dozen on-line poetry sites and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader & Foxtrot Uniform poetry magazines. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar