Back home

 Oh potatoes rotting

And this western town

Asses swaying and cussed pockets

The slamming of car doors rubber and metal

A humming 

That probably a good thing to do when its not a very nice day

No I am not saying that there is an Egyptian living down stairs

But she sure worships that dog man

Dogman or mandog,

I am not even sure if he isn't a doggod

 God dog it, I mean dagnam it or man dag it

She has got all men out of her life except Him

And the tree next door is in blossom, well it is hanging its fruits

It is near mid July

And the pollen is high 

and its scent wafts through my window

The sun is long in the sky 

and hangs there mellow

Like it is sad to go down

And put an end to all this beauty

this summer of loving

Oh now I'm getting carried away in sentiment

The runner jogs on 

Another car passes

The martial arts combatants leave for the evening

After beating themselves up and each other

In the gym

In the dance hall of horrors

So much like a timeless

Beating box 

that is incessantly drummed with the

pounding and tapping of feet - little and large

the footprints stay there.

This is the third age of man

The forties

I am back on home turf,

Although not totally home

It is now quickly becoming my home

I am sinking back into British life

and it is absorbing me

It is beautiful this time of year

The pigeons or crows flap in the boughs

And rearrange their positions I suppose