By Richard Ward
Making the most of Plymouth town
Set free haircut and lockdown frowns
Makes Primark throb with braying hunters
Packs of hyena smile punters
Stalking aisles without fear
Seeking Zebra patterned lycra gear
Drake heaves with eager shoppers
Circus rings with hard-earned coppers
Fortified and sensing thrills
Make the cacophony of tills
Ring out like there’s no tomorrow
Foreshadow other days of sorrow
Spending whilst the sun is sunny
Pissing up their hard-earned money
Freed by ministerial flourish
Set loose by command of Boris
It’s great to be back in the middle of town
Spending before the next lockdown
Huddled masses, huddle no more
They queue respectfully by the door
anticipating some boozy cheer
A sip of post lockdown beer
Each must obey the inner need
To satisfy their spending greed
I’ll want to scream, a primal scream.
Move it on up, it ain’t d’ream
Things, can only get better?
And I shall rise, again.
Covid Got Derek
The stalagmite row. Blackened teeth
sit uneven under canine guard.
Sentinels, aligning the tongue
made Del whistle when he spoke his tune.
Pensive, dog-end of a man
failed by something, or one.
I shall miss his cheery, nervous laughs
from his window, staring, thoughtfully long,
Smoking roll-ups, a ‘Del-mix’ parcel wrap.
White mists of smoke sail deep, pursed,
gatekeeper lips blew invisible trumpets,
and Del whistled out his cadenced song.
I cannot find an answer now,
his box is filled, with him, too few
the accoutrements of life,
roll up the road to those pastures new
A man comes, packs his goods
A lifetime, far less accrued,
and I wonder why I never listened
when Del whistled as he spoke his tune.