I sit here on a wooden bench,
Daffodil rapids cascade down
Into my sea of calm.
Gyrating around metal monsters
Semi-controlled by traffic lights.
Youths stream down
From concrete buildings,
Bring alcopop
And strong cider.
Leave flotsam messages
Of doomed youth
Blowing about
The tranquil sea.
Burgundy tank-topped
Leather patched
Tweed jacketed
Walking home at 12:53.
Could he be
A colleague
Of anorak wearing
Leather briefcase carrying
Flap-over fifties style.
Huddled over supercomputers
Predicting the weather
But not for the microclimate
On their doorstep.
Widdershins providers of fodder
For the roundabout.
Computed insurance,
Cars out and in.
Then round and round
Pick a lane
And take your chance.
Next, trainers of car donors
And weather people
To use the software
That stores the data
That predicts the weather
And doles out the cars
To gyrate round in madness.
Ascend from the pool
To another watering hole.
Sup stoops of ale.
Stagger to the pool of calm.
Through shadowed shallows
Of quietness.
Meander home to rest,
Reprise the journey
Every day.
Serenity and nature’s sound
But madness all around.
NiC Roworth – August 4, 2021