two children

two children run hand in hand
upon a scrap of council land
their podgy parents sit and smoke
post social media video jokes

at the touch of a screen the lives of those
admired, despised and some they know

yes, they love their smartphones
they’ve made the toy strewn rough cut grass zone
their domain, their terraced castle grounds
where the little rascals babble with laughter

an old man watches on from his window
he’s the ‘paedo’ that was always a weirdo

who now never gets to go out
in fear of the shouts and taunts from the louts
whose two children run hand in hand
upon the scrap of council land

that separates them from the busy road
where the quarry lorries unload

a toxic cargo of asthma inducing invisible snow
to blight the already blighted glow
of futures held in the hands of others
parents, weirdos, councils, climate changers

the big wheeler dealers that keep things turning
the sun might be shining today, but tomorrow

the two children will reap the GMO hay fever
of meadows sown but heatwaves razed
yet, by heck, let us not get carried away!
let’s sit back and enjoy the two children play

hand in hand, laughing, running
as all children would no doubt want to do

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just disappearing

just disappearing
sounds so appealing
but where to disappear to
when all the world’s askew?
there’s nowhere to run to
there’s nowhere to hide
perhaps the only place
is inside my mind?

chalk marks

these chalk hills have settled
in my bones
white as seagull feathers
hard as the past yet
soft as the present moment
I ache to be dissolved
to be worn down like a coward
as the cliffs that face the sea
choose to lose their daily battle

these chalk streams have flowed
in my veins
they have meandered through
forgotten vales forever borne onward
changing course with seasonal whim
the fight being only with oneself
it consuming all of time
crushing the outer shell to powder
blunting the flint of any resolve

these chalk marks have left their scars
on my childhood skin
we collected skulls on the seashore
sucked green slime from the sockets
soft slippery between our toes and teeth
when deeper down and buried
we found chunks of mortar fins
corroded into abstract art
still deadly in our hands