Crowgill Park

Bowls:
A game, played by men
whose lives
hath no goals,

with each end marking
only more time passing,
as they slowly roll up
to the heavenly jack.

A pair of happy wagtails
patrol the uneven green,
dry and parched and dusty
like the second week
of Wimbledon.

The heady scent
of free jazz cigarettes,
wafted on a gentle breeze;
the sound of magpies chattering,
buzzy bees bumbling
in the lavender borders,
and two choppers overhead:

Is it the police?
Is it Barratt Homes, laughing at my semi?
Noel Edmonds, engaged in aerial combat
with the metal king of crows?
Or is it a mental aberration?

Answers on a postcard.
Lord only knows.

B.P.R. 20/06/2017