Mayday.



Another no pay day,
wet and cloudy,
with splashes of sunshine,
to illuminate the trees with no flags in them
and the greens with no dancers.

There are no Maypoles
and all the budding fruit
is bruised and out of reach.


The emulsion Hawthorn,
like the 60's in a Victorian slum,
has turned down its brim
and only the red tulips,
wait in smart rows,
whole and hard,
waiting to delight.


The forget me not blinks,
like the first modest ecstasy,
an old women from St Kitts,
sings to herself,
to ward of devils.

The police have another round up,
of those who are young and strong and poor,
to encourage the straights,
who are to frightened to burn cathedrals,
in their mind.

~