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