MIDDLETON STONEY
In slo-mo, he ran like a hovercraft
Into an overhanging branch which watched
The pitch for centuries, though now it laughed
Along with youth and cruelty at such botched
And blind intent it tweaked the summer idyll.
Companionship via mockery is old
As green on white, as red hit from the middle,
Of near-flat, short-grass, half-brown lightly rolled.
There, just before my fifteenth birthday, the place
I first got nicely drunk on bottled Becks,
played football in the twilight, kept my grace
that day, and saved my shame up for the next.
I found out boys on tour don’t go too far
If there’s a friendly clubhouse with a bar.
SOUTHWOLD
Tom Jones is in the forest singing songs
Bob Dylan’s written. I am smitten by
The setting and the glistening midnight throng’s
Reaction. Readying for a weekend’s high
And heaving revelling, they relax into
This new incongruous song-clash. Clearing dense
With brimming calm, here’s showbiz Tom in lieu
Of rivals, burning down the leaf-lined tents.
Tom Jones is in the forest and he knows
Just what he’s there for, waking dryads if
he needs to, he’s a model of repose,
restraint and carefully scaring no one stiff
at midnight in the forest with the voice
of Thursday night when there’s no other choice.
No comments:
Post a Comment