The Laburnum
If only the small, homely laburnum tree
Was as poisonous to squirrels as it is to me,
Then the dunnocks and tits that come to feed
Could sway in peace to peck at their seed.
As it is, squirrels, plump and far-too-smart,
Climb and plunder the spoils: they often start
By swinging wildly to and fro, then pound
Away till the seeds spill on the ground.
The birds are left to scavenge in the cracks
Of the paving and shrubs, compiling snacks
From the leftovers of the squirrels’ feast,
Subdued, and a bit pissed off to say the least.
Travelling by Train
- The Commute
Regular, ritualistic, the journey
From Dorking Station to London
Several times weekly, but oddly
I never minded the commute.
Platform 2 for Victoria,
Under the tunnel or over the bridge
For my next Waterloo train.
Rarely did I hit the rush hour
So I invariably found a seat;
It didn’t matter which way I faced,
Brief case squirrelled beneath my feet.
Usually I read, though drifting
Off was not unknown;
By way of insurance I dozed
Feet planted on my case,
Mobile phone clasped in my hand,
Lessons learned from decades
Of inner-city cafes and bars.
Rumbling to Epsom by rich fields
And hedgerows, clicking on automatic
Via quietly expanding townscapes
As far as Wimbledon, then grumbling
North to the splayed terminus.
The return trip was unpredictable,
With trains postponed or cancelled;
But I had companionable books.
These multiple commutes
In clamouring, bustling carriages
Were intervals, time-outs;
And if I slept more when homebound
Than en route to my office
Only twice in 40 years
Did I miss my station.
- Examining and Lecturing
Longer trips added spice:
It was almost as if I was granted
A brief holiday in work time.
I’ve travelled the UK this way.
The only time I booked a seat
In advance I found somebody
Else sitting in it, an obstinate
‘I’m not moving’ sort of person,
So I took my chances and never
Found myself perching, leaning
Into a boredom of discomfort.
It’s a toss up: if you face ahead
You can anticipate what’s to come
Though it flashes by, but if you opt
To focus on what’s just gone
You win more time to observe.
Bags secured by feet or hand
I’d release my laptop and two books,
A non-fiction work of theory
And a novel in case I grew weary.
Thus equipped I’d likely gaze
Out of the window or drop off.
There was a time I went often
To Wales, to Cardiff or Swansea;
For a while I laboriously went
Via London, before I realised
I could go from Dorking Deepdene,
Change at Reading – where
I’d grab a coffee – and join
The London train from there.
Longer journeys donate
Precious breathing spaces
In which you can do something
Or nothing.
- Special Trips
There was the time we traversed
Northern Italy where I was to speak,
One of those ‘work holidays’
That sort of end up as treats;
And the occasion when we departed
Trondheim to work our way
Into Sweden and across Saga’s bridge
To Denmark.
What capped them all was boarding
The Trans-Siberian railway in Moscow,
Though we were delayed: North Korea’s
Despot occupied the train before ours
As he was apparently afraid of flying,
Lest by the seat of his pants at home.
We had become an improvised service,
Designed to clear out displaced souls.
Our cabin was cosily intended for four,
Two bunks each side of a narrow gangway;
Seated at a fold-up table by the window
We were set to observe Siberia slip by.
Every carriage had a samovar, policed
On 12 hour shifts by a provodnistsa
Grim-faced and brooking no nonsense.
The restaurant car had a faded grandeur
To it, much like the meals, but the vodka
Was two pounds sterling for a bottle;
Nothing should be said of the toilets.
The countryside swept by, we crossed
The Volga and paused awhile at Omsk;
Locomotives hauling 50-60 trucks
Trundled by as regularly as time zones.
Landscapes blurred past like mists.
Irkutsk was a trading post, fur and pelts,
But is wound down and deserted now,
Gold fever and fateful Decembrists
Are long since gone, yet the wooden house
Of Maria Volkonsky, ‘Princess of Siberia’
And Pushkin’s muse, defied the fire
Of 1879 to commemorate eras unforgotten.
Nearby Lake Baikal, a fifth of the world’s
Freshwater, flashed ripples in the sun.
China beckoned and as the bogie changed
So did the railway, Trans-Manchurian
Displacing Trans-Siberian; to mark
The occasion a six-foot, incongruously
Short-skirted Russian policewoman
Inspected each carriage, unsmilingly,
Only to be succeeded by a bespectacled
Chinese counterpart who smilingly
Checked passports and papers, while
Confessing an urge to study in London.
The austere Russian prairies were gone,
Replaced by lush crops as far as the eye
Could see, cyclists waving as joyously
As the Russians had stared unblinkingly;
Fruit from Harbin’s stalls as the prospect
Of Beijing crept closer, though the nights
In our compartment were hot and airless
As, forewarned, we locked and tied doors
Against possible incursions by thieves:
It was like dozing in a microwave.
It had been three weeks since leaving
Moscow for Beijing, most of it gazing
Unseeing out of our cabin window
At thousands of kilometres of arid
Pastures and distant hills, interrupted
By an occasional peasant homestead
Or marketplace targeting passengers
From work-a-day trains like ours;
It was a good way to see foreign parts.
Virtual Friends
Don’t underestimate the healing power
Of friendships won in the virtual sphere,
There’s nothing second rate about them:
They can give succour and lift spirits
With the punch and brio often falsely
Attributed to the familiar, safe and cosy
Day-to-day mundanity of the actual.
COVID has not merely exposed inequality
And lit fuses of cronyism and corruption;
By Twitter, Facebook and their progeny
It has created bonds of common hurt,
Moulding unity among the redundant,
Holding the hands of mums rationing
Homebound tasks beyond redemption.
Sharing the woes of domestic strain,
Or worse, sleepless nights and unending
Hours of aimless, enforced seclusion
In fifth-floor flats, all the while pursued
By predatory landlords, including MPs,
Making fat bucks out of people’s misery,
Hopelessness and seizures of despair.
Yes, the virtual can bestow solidarity,
Let you know you are not a solitary,
Deserted figure, lost in a nightmare
Of others’ making, but a sister, a brother
Of someone you’ve never met, a stranger
Who feels as you feel and feels for you;
Virtual friends can rescue your life.
Ageing Brains
You sit before the TV, all eyes and ears,
And listen to the questions, trying to beat
The panellists to the gun amidst fears
That answers once known are in retreat.
It’s not that you can’t any more respond,
But answers must be dredged from deep,
Salvaged from the clay depths of the pond
And sucked clear; it can make you weep!
Your brain battles against growing odds
To furnish you with the right riposte,
It’s light is a dim and faded glow as it prods
And hassles your memory before all is lost.
Friends of ours have hit upon a solution:
Impatient for their memories to kick in
They score a point with the resolution
That ‘Once I knew that!’ counts as a win.
Night Visitors
As dusk arrives and we retreat indoors
There’s a scratch and a rustle outside,
Not that we can see or hear the claws
As they scavenge deep in the hillside,
Exposing the roots of the new plants.
Whose territory is this, we protest,
When the crisp morning light lays bare
The destruction wrought by these pests
Who show no respect for human fare
And have vanished from the scene?
Maybe Google can cast fresh light
On which of the fox, badger or deer
Perpetrates this calumny, this blight
On our daytime endeavours to clear
And inscribe our rainbows of colour.
Well maybe the badger’s to blame,
Or so this tell-tale deposit suggests,
So what’s to be done, how to tame
This hungry intruder that never rests
Until sated on the grubs in the roots?
Friends online have afforded a clue
How to deter these untamed critters:
‘What you do’, and they insist it’s true,
‘Is mark your territory with demi-litres
Of male urine.’ Well, I’ll give it a go!
As the sun goes down and neighbours
Sink their blinds and collapse by the fire
I emerge, well watered, and undeterred
By tweeting birds, pee a message, dire
And unequivocal, to each furry hooligan.
Of course there’s another side to ponder,
A rider to attach to a very human story,
Badgers may think it a piss-take, wonder
If this is yet another event in history
Where other species are disrespected.
Don’t Turn Out the Lights
In one respect it doesn’t matter,
Not just because I won’t be there
But for the more philosophical
Reason that in an indeterminate
Future we humans will be extinct,
And I doubt that the mulluscs
Or insects that inherit planet Earth
Will keep records of human quirks,
Vicissitudes and catastrophes.
But there’s my funeral to ponder.
I expect only my family will gather
To say goodbye, but they might
Appreciate a word of two of counsel
While there’s (some) time in hand,
And as of now I have a few thoughts.
Don’t be afraid to laugh if things
Go awry, if a clanger if dropped,
Or something heavier and noisier
Punctures whatever humanist – dare
I say ‘atheist’ – rituals are competing
For your attention; my aspiration
Is for you to relish being together.
If there must be music, let it be jazz,
But who’s to be playing what?
Three options appeal as I sit here,
Ruminant, toying with genres:
Louis Armstrong’s hot fives or sevens
Would create a buzz; but then there’s
The trans-genre burr of the sax
Of Coleman Hawkins, who reinvented
Himself; yet when all’s said and done
It has to be Charlie Parker, soloist
And unparalleled improviser;
(I’d add Billie Holiday if she wasn’t
Too melancholic for my funeral).
Nobody need say anything, unless
They have a stand-up comic routine
To hand, or there’s an improved
Version of this poor poem available.
If you will, pause for a moment,
By-pass times to forgive and forget,
And settle on an isolated act of love
Or kindness to remember me by;
Then let me fade as you replace me,
For your lives are what matter now.