In evensong

 

There is a 

magic time,

when the

tolling church bell

chimes

in evensong.

When

the sun

sinks low,

resting its head on

the horizon's lap,

as it dozes off

into a dream-filled nap

 

And the sky glows

 

golden,

 

and I sit beholden

to the sky.

I let my thoughts

take flight.

Insights blending

with mystical light.

 

Swooping through

the liquid air,

they weave and wave .

Swimming

through the vapour

trails of airplanes.

And they piggyback

on the tails of birds

on their way

to someplace exotic.

To find tales to tell

one sunny day.

 

Clouds with

smiles bound

over the green pastures,

reflecting the

sheep that

graze

in bountiful skies.

Counting the seconds

mid doze, as they chase

butterfly dreams

across rolling meadows.

And the sun lolls

upon the incoming night

haloing the scene in golden light.

Silhouetting beauty

for excited eyes.

A bulldozer of truth

 

They say

this place is dead,

but I see

a big difference

I see the future ahead,

I see life

dancing

to every beat

of the heart

of this vibrant

colourful city.

The art scene

bringing the paint

in a

great wash

over the

dirt and grime.

 

The poets

articulating

veracity in

every word

they say,

in some

antics

of word

play they

get mouthy

to bring forth

a bulldozer of truth

crashing

through walls of

hateful distorted noise.

Bulldozing the past

for bright new future days

still to play.

 

The music making

the place bounce

and sway, as they

shake the

bloodstained

foundations, from punk to jazz,

to hip hop collabs.

This is not death,

but rebirth.

A retaking

of the earth

from those that

want it soiled

in spoiled thoughts

that they see as 2funky

for them.

 

They scream

about zombie towns,

about the down and outs.

Hate hidden as insight.

Outcry at anything new.

Stuck in a past that was

stained in misuse and abuse.

But now the seeds

are being planted

in communal gardens,

and new playgrounds,

so that a diverse

flowering future

can come true.

Plants vs zombies.

The plants always win.

Under the boot

 

Hate arrives

like bad tides

on a storm surge.

A purge of hope,

as those toxic

waters rise.

The hate lies

not in those on boats,

but the disillusioned inhabitants 

of this island cesspit.

 

Can you hear the jack boots marching?

And are you okay with that?

 

Fascist right barking hate

over a dissolutioned fractured state,

the weakened left, aching and bereft,

at the breaking waves.

 

As peace flows away

in the wake of frothing rage,

dissolved hope is left to feed

a growing seething inside,

but all we are getting are scraps,

and the last remnants of optimism

flows over the gates.

 

Does it make it better for you,

this deluded view?

Is your life better

if everyone else falls

under the boot?

 

Don’t you realise that

you will be next

to be trodden down?

 

From behind your picket fence

can you hear those hateful rants?

Marching chants, as the rage rises

at anyone that doesn’t

mirror your own face.

Do you stand scared, or do you

wear your teeth bared at anyone

that looks different to you?

And as the country falls

deeper into shit and the blame shifts,

those who cheer for this

will be next in the target sights.

 

For hate is never satisfied.

and those boots

will march over your rights.