Sun peeping a shy greeting
garlanded by a blue February sky
as a single vapour trail
has me wondering....
"where are you off to,
somewhere warm and oceany and good foody?"
It answers back,
" Leeds Bradford Airport,"
as I,
lately risen to escape early morning cramp,
customary Costa Rican with foamed soya
to ease another yawn
and a whispered fart
ponder today,
with a persistent blue tit
flittering backwards and forwards
as if a lit candle up its bum,
"ok, I'll sort your sodding feeder out
when I'm showered
and dressed
and fed
and compos mentos,
it's only an unpaid voluntary job you know,"
I'll pay mi papers,
a weekly task
that guarantees
an all weather flap of mi letter box
welcoming
the local rag six days a week,
at present explaining how a journey to the
other side of our planet,
even farther than Milton Keynes,
two games
then 12,000 miles back
isn't responsible for the Warriors losing at
Warrington.
I remember a similar local rag
sold on Blackpool Prom
many years ago....
"Billy's Weekly Liar",
but today,
Sunday,
that in my childhood
meant all the shops shut,
no professional sporting activities
and an air of bored reverence all day
whilst pampering to the
misery defining wishes
of the church-going brigade,
Sunday Times will visit with
the ongoing saga of
shenanigans at Oxfam and their ilk
and Mrs May getting her dress in a twist
with her blue knickers,
and a visit next door but one to the
DEBRA
charity shop
where our mates
Elaine and David
will hold court
whilst I hunt the next accoutrement
to catch mi eye
and perhaps use in "performance",
which in inverted comma for a reason,
I found a fart gun last week,
used at the Old Law Courts last Thursday,
well,
my age,
excuses anything....almost,
good job I don't work for Oxfam.
Change of plan,
Ar Sharon almost awake
shuffles past
groaning a “good morning,
nice day for a ride”,
as I, second cup,
think,
best get a move on then,
can’t sit here all day tapping out this new story of red prom formal wears of lace
an elderly gent,
adrift on life’s journey,
doesn’t go very far
but
he makes it count.
Good morning.
(George Melling, 25th Feb 2018)
Th’Owd Chap.
Transpennine Express
15.16
from Manchester Piccadilly
to Glasgow,
where the passing landscape
becomes
a rush
of
blink
and
miss
as it changes to
trees and
fields and
horses
who barely look up
from their
teethy
munch,
to
time-warped hamlet
and
isolated cottage
that
seems to flinch
our
passing
before settling back
into
a
timeless,
unchanging
torpor….
until
the next train
trembles
its fabric
of
age.
--
A segment
of a snapshot
as
Wigan
hoves into view
and
I alight
into
normal time,
--
leaving
the dedicated traveller,
their
multi-pack of
Stella Artois
to numb the tedium
of
rolling moors,
--
to
hurry
the
miles.
(George Melling 25th Feb 2018)
Th’Owd Chap.
