...AND I SEE THEM THERE

I see them here and I see them there,

In fact I see them everywhere.

In every road and every street,

They're seen by everyone that I meet.

Not very big but they stand out proud,

Their garish colour is so loud.

Why they're there we do not know,

We just see them lined-up in a row.

I stand and stare and look at it,

And take it in just bit by bit.

I've picked it up it's in my hand,

The bloody postman's red elastic-band.

THE COLD CALLER

I see him walking towards me, suit, tie, identification badge round his neck; clipboard in hand, The Cold Caller!

Many, many times throughout my working life, I have given thanks to a/some/The God that I have had an office environment job, warm, light, quiet(ish).

I think of all the jobs I would hate to do.

And the Cold Caller is the one that I would hate the most.

Walking the streets in all weathers, knocking on the door of people whom you don't know, never knowing what would appear when the door(if it did) opened.

Knock, knock, a long pause, or so it seemed, the light appeared in the fanlight above the door, the door wrenched open in a "what the bloody hell do you want?" manner.

It was one of those houses where the front door opened straight into the living room and in the background of the lightless room glowed The TV.

The shadowy figure standing in the doorway, TV Times in hand, his eyes continually glancing at me and then darting back to gaze, longingly, at the TV, a look that said "please say what you have to whilst the adverts are on, and then go."

Knock, knock, the door slowly opened, just a few inches, to expose the security chain and there, some distance down from me, I saw an eye, a bloodshot watery eye, attached to a frail elderly lady with an hearing -aid.

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"What do you want?"

Knock, knock, No! Your worst nightmare, there stood in the doorway a "Slob", unshaven, tattooed, mucky vest, fag in mouth, fat belly, beer can in hand.

"What do you want?"

"Er, sorry sir, wrong house."

Knock, knock, BANG! The sound of bone against glass sets you shaking in your shoes, sweat flows from every pore in your body, you have never been as frightened in your life, for there in the window the large head of a snarling, white spit dribbling, Rottweiller.

"Don't think I will bother with this house."

Knock, knock, The door slowly opens to expose a soft red light within which is the silhouette of a voluptuous lady, possibly in her sixties, hair dyed an Autumnal ruddy brown, deep red lipstick, dressed in a diaphanous negligee.

"Well, hello darling, and what can I do for you?"

"Er", gulp, "Er", gulp. "Could you tell me where I could find...?"

Now sat in the car, tie wrenched off, third cigarette smoked in two minutes, whisky bottle from glove compartment gently caressed, the end of another day.

All you want to do is sleep, but sleep only brings tomorrow closer.

DEATH OF OLD BARLICK

I've just walked round Old Barlick town,

And don't like what I see.

These poncy shops that have sprung up,

To sell to you and me.

There's fancy frocks and fancy shoes,

And fancy other things.

There's coffee this and coffee that,

Bracelets and golden rings.

No screws or nails, no pot of paint,

No wallpaper or copper pipe,

Just one butcher there is left,

And he don't sell tripe.

A WALK IN LITTONDALE

It's early morning, Sun's up high,

The Falcon's hovering in the sky.

On rocky crags the sheep are seen,

On mountain tracks where I have been.

The car's parked up, the door is locked,

On telephone wires the Swifts are flocked.

"Morning", that's the only word,

From passing strangers you have heard.

A "Finger" points, "This is the way",

That sets your course for you today.

On your own you want to be,

So hurry by a crowd you see.

The lush carpet of sheep-cropped grass,

Lies underfoot where you will pass.

The well-worn path it lies ahead,

Pebbles in dried-up river bed.

Skeletal outline of ancient barn,

"Dogs on lead", the sign did warn.

The mossy ranks of limestone walls,

The stile ahead to me it calls.

Amongst the vetch and buttercup,

A Wagtail playing, "catch me up".

The fresh piled hills of Mr Mole,

The gentle mare and lovely foal.

The river's dry, no water there,

To quench the thirst of foal and mare.

The stepping stones no need to use,

Your path ahead you will not lose.

The enticing glimpse of whitewashed inn,

Through trees you spy, it's beckoning.

You're nearly there your thirst to quench,

Soon you'll be there sat on that bench.

With beer you sit and look around,

See every sight, hear every sound.

Three elderly guys (I think they're gay)

"What's your drink?, my turn to pay".

Time to leave; your day has gone,

Retrace your steps, one by one.

The beauty around it is unfurled,

To you, the only person in the world.

FOLLOW ME I HAVE A MAP...(an incident on the way to my niece's wedding)

'Tis the morning of the wedding day,
Of two young lovers, Kevin; Faye.
A perfect day to make their vows,
No fallings out or many rows.

At the castle we did plan to meet,
To follow Arthur, as in a fleet.
We all stood at our car door,
One, two, then three and four.

Then at the signal we jumped in,
Brothers, sisters, kith and kin.
Off we went our way to wend,
Until we lost him round the bend.

Round and round and here and there,
I was following daughter Claire.
In front of her there was this car,
With two Aussies who had come far.

In a garage-forecourt they did stop,
From out our cars we all did hop.
"Bloody strewth Bruce! we're all lost,
We need to find him at our cost."

“Follow me I have a map,
It’s now spread out upon my lap.
To find the church we now must go,
One after another all in a row."

The clock is ticking faster now,
As we sped off stern to bow.
Which way to go we do not know,
The road that's high or the road that's low.

The motorway it loomed ahead,
And to the left Aussie Bruce he led.
A sign appeared that stopped our smiles,
"Belfast only twenty miles."

"Oh my God!" now what to do?
Bruce as got us in a stew.
"To turn around we have no choice,"
From out the back there came this voice.

A slip road there appeared ahead,
So down it now was where we sped.
"Look there's a farmer, he will know,
Ask him the way that we must go."

"To be sure just go down,
Down and down into the town."
"At the pub you should turn right,
Just twenty yards from the traffic-light."

Time is passing, not long now,
When our pair will make their vow.
Over sea and over land,
We have come to see the wedding band.

"There it is! there's the church,"
And to a halt the car did lurch.
Out we jumped and off we ran,
But we carried dear old Gran.

Into the church we then did fly,
And old Gran she let out a sigh,.
When the Usher said "You'll have to wait",
"The couple are an hour late."

A SHADOW OF MY FORMER SELF

I'm not the man I used to be,
Just the shadow of my former self.
The barrier that confronts me now,
It caught me up by stealth.

The route to go is in front of me,
There is no other way.
If I should leave my chosen path,
So dearly I would pay.

The time is passing quickly now,
I need to reach my goal.
My earthly body will remain,
But I will lose my soul.

A cloud drifts by the Sun has gone,
My soul has disappeared.
'til my heart and soul are one again,
I'll cry the tears I feared.

THE DEATH OF MAY

That special month we know as May,
Is over now, no more to stay.
Buttercup-meadows, stain trousers yellow,
Midst verdant pastures that now are mellow.

The heavy scent of Hawthorn bush,
The flight of rabbits in a rush.
Small birds chirping in the tree,
The busy buzzing of bumble-bee

Swooping Swallows have returned once more,
From that far-off distant shore.
The cows out at last in Summer's sun,
With grass to eat and room to run.

The smell of Garlic all around,
Those green shoots sprouting from the ground.
The dainty scent of pink Mayflower,
Grows stronger with each fleeting hour.

Horse-chestnut flowers all creamy-white,
The start of conkers for boys' delight.
A puffs a tick and a puffs a tock,
That tells the time by a Dandelion-clock.

The Ash the last to bloom this year,
Thought it had died, that was our fear.
The bleating sheep they seem to say,
"It's not long now until next May."