Summer In England
The land was before us and so was the sea.
We are intruders in the wild of stone and tree.
We dwell in our shelters and pine to be free.
Freed the forest from dangers,
as strangers we study the sky.
We do not belong there
but our dreams take us high.
Where are we going? Where have we gone?
If only we knew how to get through.
But let us be civilised, it is summer.
In England that means a pot of tea,
strawberry jam and cream on a scone.
Golf On The Radio
Listen, there is golf on the radio.
Seemed hard to believe, a snag in the flow.
Unstimulated by the sport, though,
as a schoolboy, I remember I enjoyed
playing putting on the putting green
in my local park,
I changed stations, listened, for a lark.
Listen, the voice of the commentator
speaks as low as the grass
he describes in a lull in the play,
as he does the hues of the sky,
clouds as they pass,
his tone quiet as a stationary caddie,
clear as the head of a club.
After a minute, I turn off.
That is all I can take.
But there is comfort to know,
in this loud world,
there is golf on the radio.
Wrecks In The Deep
You try to climb the mountain,
the way up grows too steep.
Decide to dwell in dreams,
find your bed too hard for sleep.
The boat you built to sail in
becomes a wreck in the deep.
Train to be an astronaut,
you will not aim for less.
Prepare for life in space,
consider it a success
when you handle your helmet,
and master weightlessness.
Remember when you were younger,
you voyaged out with no map or compass,
no true course to keep,
almost drowned to be one of many
wrecks in the deep.
Odd as it may seem,
though you’ve been here a long time,
life still seems to you
stranger than a dream.
Why didn’t they look after themselves?
Why did they leave widows and orphans
on the shore to weep?
Too many left the stage too early,
floundered to end as wrecks in the deep.