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now you’re a vegan

I worry you’ll become an

angry militant

shouting outside McDonalds

and picketing the butchers

in the dead of night

planets turn and align

the moon turns blood red

and sleepy heads everywhere

stay wrapped up in their dreams

a vast Cardiff Bay

shimmers in a heatwave

lucent blue water

rippled by tourists

taking pleasure boat rides

trotting along

with a McDonalds bag

heading for her car

“I’m leaving! I’m leaving” she

shrieks at the parking warden

cheeky lads
give the train conductor lip
then sneak
into the first class carriage
behind his back

the young man

at the railway crossing

lifts his small son up

to watch the departing train

but only dad is waving

children throw their lunch
at pigeons and chase them
up and down the park
mothers sit chattering
ignoring the mayhem

Monday evening

church bell practice

ringing out

the faithful eat dinner

in front of soap operas

for the waitress

stacking away chairs

the night is still young

somewhere across town

a man is combing his hair

it is far too cold

for the Big Issue seller

who calls it a day

rolling up his dog’s blanket

and unsold copies

at the checkout

a poor old lady

having to decide

what items to put back

what can she go without

bitter cold day

a tree hugger wraps her arms

round the thick trunk

of a leafless oak tree

in the middle of town

the drunk guy

sitting in the barber’s chair

keeps changing his mind

first he wants it cut short

now he wants it to stick up

tree fellers

break for lunch beside a stump

all that remains

of a once majestic oak

it’s crown now strewn on the ground

for just a minute

a thin silent crowd gathers

outside the Town Hall

showing solidarity

a French flag flies at half-mast

Sunday afternoon

a drunk guy fast asleep

on a park bench

his worldly possessions

in a single plastic bag

it was two o’clock

in the afternoon

and Brody staggered

down the London street grinning

learning to talk will be next

humid summer’s day

people relax in the park

no-one moves except

young girls performing cartwheels

in the dappled shade of trees

little old lady

ignores the light summer rain

stealing blackberries

off a bush that has grown

over the allotment fence

a grey haired old man

digs over his allotment

in the evening

the low sun casts his shadow

the length of his patch of earth

little ghosts and ghouls

trot up my garden path

to collect their treats

my own little monster

now a handsome young man

Ruban spends his day

stuck behind his counter

stealing small talk

with the many customers

rushing through his shop

Sunday in the park

dads show off their football skills

sons stare at their phones

mothers sit on the sidelines

and dream of being rescued

cricketers squeeze

into the small clubhouse

and watch the rain

no one has an inkling

of what their innings will be

the poet Shiki

only had his small garden

for inspiration

I have a vast ocean

right up to the horizon

a new busker 

has appeared on the high street 

with his dog, guitar 

and another rendition 

of 'stairway to heaven'

children scream and laugh 

as they play in the sea

during a heatwave 

I recall my own 

never ending summers

the crack of decks

slam the pavement and echo

around Bristol

as dozens of skaters 

practice their manoeuvres

grey haired Mods

ride their scooters back

to Brighton’s seafront

on August bank holiday’s

to remember the sixties

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