Prince Charles and his consort Camilla, The Duchess of Cornwall were guests of The Pub is the Hub yesterday to witness first hand how vital an inn can be at the heart of a community.
Royalty sups ale at The Bell in Purleigh, Essex.
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Monthly Archives: January 2014
Hall of Mirrors
Drawn as by duty down a line
Dropping. Scraping the sides of a dark nothing
Viscous. Imagination pulls
At the echo of a colour lost to reason
So into slime the journey churns
Where daylight may be an escape
But I am fascinated by the threat of malevolence
Wherein I, the author and the victim
Ask why. Why not make this a parody
And set me in a circus of smiles,
Or rich guffaws
But not the gallery of screams that pop
From an arcade of paid for thrills
Why am I, even in my own head
An outsider with dread
Let me please enjoy a loosening of the coils
That seem to constrict my pleasure
Obscure my vision and bring me
Always to the edge of pain
Let me exchange with the man in the booth
Small change for folly and blind excitement
Not the never ending centrifuge of fear
That falls twisting as a mirror to fate
Wake-up call
Dull, insistent, penetrating noise
The sound of a pump
It sprays water from the shower head
As I lay nearby, somewhere in line
For the ablutions. This mark of urgency
The willingness to act
I am. Therefore I will get wet
Cleanse off the dark attitude
And emerge bright. Willing
But perhaps I forget
That others in other places
Suffer my hardship
But, wake-up without water
Without warmth. Bereft. Alone
And still they must go out
Into another day without support
That I so grudgingly
Take for granted
I live in the friction of my own selfish desire
Knowing only in glimpses
That others share the world with me
Scene stealer
The mist. Impervious quiet
Ranks low over the cold ground
And settles a silken blanket
Over all the inert scenery
Everything I might interpret
Everywhere I may have to navigate
Dumb. Is it dumb?
Implacably indifferent it leeches colour
From the landscape of morning
And questions whether timely progress
Would profit from any enthusiasm
So. Still and quiet without a face
The day just waits
It is impervious to me. Implacable
In the dimness a shared heart
Asks with a throb for us to wait
For what will occur in hide and seek
Tributes to the risen water
These boats stand on-end. A salute to the power of the water that on better days will carry them as pleasure craft. Today they are sentinels against a flood.
A scene from the river-bank at Shepperton on Thames.
Forced optimism
Oh, the waste
As each day opens with sloth
And waits for duty or conscience to prick
The torpor that lays like fog
Over the mind, the body and the being
Oh, the slog
It is to inhabit clothes
That signify an aim in life
That indicate a desire to do
That will last the course and return to base
Oh, the hope
That in all of this recurring effort
The point should not be lost
That we are morsels, fragments of fate
Who can crawl around reason and smile
For we have plans
Free gifts
Society confers status upon those
Who leave footprints
But it forgets the ones that whisper
Omitting to grant gifts to the quiet
In case the strident march
Is ignored or simply allowed to pass
So when you receive your inscribed pen
An embossed note-pad or signature robe
Sit up and clap and know
That you are in the club
We, the mute drones
Will sponsor you and lay tinder bones
As sleepers for your railway
For loud, exclusive progress
And wilt as the whistle of celebrations
Rounds the curve and vanishes
We losers will wait once again
For the late running train
We are patient because we know that virtue
Consigns value to a different order
