Yellow and purple crocuses
Shiver in the humid wind
Fierce rattle of branches above
Dogs trot and squat
Their owners bowing down
Gathering up the shit
n.b. You have to hand it to dog-owners, they really love those animals. Thank you for cleaning up as they go.
In 1787 eleven ships
Set sail from Spithead
To New South Wales
On board people
Sentenced to Penal Servitude
For their crimes
” – the birth of modern Australia”
It’s only half the story
In 1987 was there a pause, your Majesty
To consider the impending fate
Of those indigenous people
Who did not understand
What was happening
When eleven ships arrived
In New South Wales
Determined to stay
Exploring Portsea Island
n.b. Portsmouth is Great Britain’s only island city, the second most densely populated urban environment after London. Perhaps it should be twinned with Manhattan?
A brand called
Strong Island is developing here. Pompey folk are proud of their home city and are happy to wear the label, despite the island having significant social problems associated with its high density population.
This weekend of treading the streets, stopping here and there to ask questions and to take time wandering, has already led me to establish a sizeable list of places to visit and things to do.
It’s alright here.
On England’s island city
Flat, low vulnerable
n.b. A lively location as always, (and now quite lovable), but its topography suggests it has potential to become England’s Venice as sea levels rise.
n.n.b. Photograph taken from a screenshot from a newspaper website (www.theguardian.com) that used an image captured by a satellite sent up into near space in order to track hurricanes.
This sky darkens
Along the avenue
A leaf falls to the street
Cats forgo territorial rights
Stretched out immodestly on neighbouring walls as only cats can
Silence lays on silence
Doubled like thick cream
This silence flows into every pore
Lays as a cushion
Now a blackbird lets loose a burst of evensong
Children’s playful talk rises softly along the backyards
They sit out on the kerb-stones, feet in the gutter dust
From the main road, several streets back, a police siren splits the heavy air
Rose petals, hollyhocks, the fresh rosemary leaves float, held soft on the humid pillow
Golden beneath these glowering clouds
An aircraft rumble
We listen, keener
Was it thunder?
Goosebumps rise to a sudden downdraft
In the silence