the breeze causes ripples up
on the quiet waters
silence surrounds us as we lay beneath the bridge
our blue barge ahead
sitting comfortably
let’s begin
the old grey house ahead of us
where we first met
at the bathroom where we shared a bar of soap
green banks holding the water
stemming the tide
containing her
stopping her from overflowing
images of bluecars
and daffodils
caravans and deep green trees
filled the nothingness of my mind as we kissed
we entered our blue barge
and set off towards the old grey house
where we first talked about
gently swaying reeds
and the baby Moses that lay in them
waiting for his princess
to rescue him from the wicked king
the giant oak tree stood tall
ahead of us
a lonely swan was a-swimming
reminding me of me
before I met you in the old grey house
where we first shared our last cigarette
(Four horses
riderless
chewed grass in a yellow daisy-field
while hemlock threatened to poison them
with tales of abattoir
and fir trees)
the sunken countryside around us
swallowed up by the industrial monster
who fills their heads
and hedgerows with barbed wire houses
and cricket fields
that chant telephone numbers
beside the wild dog rose
the campion sits undisturbed
at man’s latest revelation
she stares at me with blood shot eyes
perhaps she’s more afraid than she looks
dressed in the pretty pink clothes
that God gave her
the horizon narrowed
the skies clouded over
as ahead of us was the old grey house
where we first kissed
blurred flowers chained themselves to the ground
amidst signs of “endangered species - do not pick
penalty
for disobedience
DEATH”
they smirked at us
self-satisfied
while I spied the old grey house
where we first held hands
a red tree
and a signpost
pointed us toward
a windmill
the windmill
turned in disgust at a cow
shouting about at nearby cars
an ancient monument
where Mary gathered flowers and Catholic souls
knee-deep in begonias
her stone calves melted into the ground
I knew I would soon join her if I touched your face once
more
West Norfolk thrust itself upon us
gave us no choice in the matter
where reclaimed marshland once stood
there was a backyard of factories
lining the pockets
of devils who had stolen
the firstfruits of nature
for greed and gain
let’s go through this arch
that leads to the Post Office
maybe we can send a letter of thanks
to the old grey house
where we first made love
(postscript - the last two words may be replaced by “drank
tea” if that would be preferable to the reader)
