Some Foreign Field

Roads and streets unfamiliar

Yet still grey drawn faces

Peer down at uneven pavements

Slabs tipsy underfoot

Coats pulled tight to tucked in chins

Hands pushed in pockets

Stooped figures limp toward the lights so bright

Shadows struggle to keep up

With these shufflers

Wrapt in hopeful talk.

.

The same battered cars line kerbs

Bumpers kissing

Litter blown by stiff north-easterly draughts

Sticks carelessly to railings.

Ice in rain fills holes in the cold breeze

Pricks pins in my face

Grey sky adopts a gloomy shade

The stadium leans in on itself

Perpetually introvert

Morose

Its pointless activity steals the joy

From coming dawns

Scarves and shirts in reds and whites

Accents more rural

Suggest spaces more green

Less concrete.

This is not my home.

.

This is far from our home

Where blue skies shine

And brilliant sun parades

Strong enough to make eyes squint

When we wake

It warms our blood

Calls us to play

Unfettered by fear of failure

At night the star and crescent

Heaven’s light

Our guide.

.

This is their place.

I leave them

Happy

To be miserable

.

CLP 27/10/2018

16:29 pm

I heard the whistle

Muffled by coats and the steady shooosh of air conditioned space filled with men and women from work, homing families at day out’s end and still we have had not enough rain nor cold air to justify our choice of jackets, scarves and colourful layers.

The paired doors clunk-clunk-ssshutt.

We roll from Waterloo toward the very edge of the sea, in fat-sweating humidity that adds extra effort to our embarrassed straining to refrain from physical contact with strangers engrossed in personal technology, whose tight attire of stretch fabric does nothing more than decorate distended thighs, hips, arms.

This clothing gives comfort to the wearer as they spill across the final millemetres of prayed for personal space, getting so close that we would be too intimately close for people frequently intimate with each other were they abed, for there a falling apart to breathe and dream in magic gardens would come sooner than the last scheduled stop at Portsmouth Harbour.

That bed would be a place far sweeter smelling than this carriage with its head-confusing concoction of stale anti-perspirants mixed with sprays, lotions and applications designed to mask humanity’s natural scents originally blended to attract at primordial level.

Outside streets lights flicker on as October sunset provides fleeting compensation for another day of clouds incapable of passing water.

.

CLP 23/10/2018