Three Poems

 
21. xii. 86

'The sun is furthest south at 4.02
Tomorrow morning.' Thus the Sunday Times.
Quite soon I shall be waking in the light,
Or resting after lunch without the sun
Bothering my sight, and fading on the wall
The study, pale enough, that Ledward made
For some memorial to the Empire's slain.

Old Gilbert, gone himself these umpteen years:
Who now remembers him, even passing his work?
Fortunate sun, to come back from the dead -
So might be thought; yet, calculating one's
Chances of seeing the other solstice, it
Must strike home that there's something to be said
For war-free slumbering, oeuvre cast in bronze.

Pie and Mash

A sign somewhere near Surrey Docks directs
The voyager to 'Bunter's Pie and Mash';
...