The filament in the light bulb above my head is broken
I cannot repair it until the everyday DIY man has spoken
And when he speaks he speaks with a lisp
Everyone is laughing – they all think he’s pissed
I don’t care what they say
Mr Repairman came to see me today
I did not laugh, he did the trick
He made everything absolutely spick
And spanner in the works – wash my dirty shirts – until it really hurts
The swallows flew the nests – they were eggs no more
I mark my card as they fly by
Kiss my friend in the eye
They were eggs no more he fried
28th Jul 2024 – Fresh Forest Cottage, some 7 or 8 years after Mum and I left and a long time before I saw again. The open window is where my bedroom was, where the howling noises all came from and a thousand cigarettes smoked and a thousand cans of beer drunk.
28th Jul 2024 – This is how I remember the garden once walking through the gate. Gillespie’s (the garage) just visible on the right where more howling and drumming was often heard. I do recall that this part of the garden had changed a lot when I saw it again some ten or fifteen years later. No surprise really. It stopped me from wanting to go in a look around though as I hoped to keep my memories intact.
Screaming along the runway, engines roar, hearts in mouths as we, cloud bound go. Panic abates, ears pop, whiteness overwhelms us, then free, like a rock slung to the heavens, bright sun gleaming cross the snow ground, bubbling like a witches brew or soft as a crash mat below.
Til dreams hit of freefalling, waiting for that soft spring catch.
But heart surrendered body as the white night envelopes til, yikes! Hard ground racing upwards, a glimpse of heaven, a walk with angels traverse the europes by the air,
30,000 feet above mad farmers, raging rivers,
ants in our eyesight, twisting snakes
like a rising Atlantis, brave mountains
puncture low cloud fall, Alpine wonder
but just a brief gasp of breath,
a mere molehill on horizons,
as we many mile per hour go
from one place to another.
In a few brief hours, sun warming our toes, we find destination, a Mediterranean island in green seas, lapping white crest tops biting at its edges.
We being to fly low, deceleration pops our eardrums
as we marvel at this rare beauty
to our right as we slide by.
Then with a touch of the wheel
we turn about so slow.
I fear we may stall in this awful manoeuvre,
but a beat on the throttle takes us in nice and easy.
We seem to be gliding ’til wheels tiptoe the tarmac
and suddenly we’re racing to slow before the grass starts and thankfully we do and our captain goes ‘phew’ in private
but tells us to have a nice day.
So off then to adventure
and off with our raincoats
where dark young men impress my sweet
darling with their dark young minds.
1994ever 