Canto CLXXXVIII

I have until the last of Monday’s sun
drains from the local rooves to write this poem.
The bare white birches, gleaming and golden.

The pointilist cliché of cherry blossom.
The local magpies fend off gangs of crows.
The Crystal Palace tower’s dying beams,

the analogue signal is soon to go
to somewhere beyond our sun’s own broadcast—
the silver tinted world of old game shows

will be picked up by some far, distant star,
so that beings with a hundred eyes will see
the puppet’s wires, the newsreader’s moustache

and prime time wrestling on ITV.
Back here, the chimney pots are now redundant,
suburban terracotta armies

burn redder than the fires that gave form to them.
The rooves roll into twilight like a sea
as birches wash to grey from tip to stem.

This poem dies as night claims the city.

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. callitcandi
    Mar 05, 2012 @ 17:55:28

    Thanks Niall. I like your work . We met in Folkestone during a ‘rant’, I enjoyed your performance and remember it fondly. Love the line – suburban terracotta armies…

    Reply

  2. peter litton
    Mar 06, 2012 @ 00:20:00

    Something I’ve often thought about…on a planet 30 light years away, will they have to wait one earth week to find out who shot JR and why.

    You’ve gone quite poetical with this one. Have you been drinking Guinness?

    “Back here, the chimney pots are now redundant,
    suburban terracotta armies
    burn redder than the fires that gave form to them.
    The rooves roll into twilight like a sea
    as birches wash to grey from tip to stem.

    This poem dies as night claims the city.”

    Reply

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