~
Bradwell Mill
I walk her perimeter, before
sitting on the grass that’s
spread out like an apron to
marvel at her fortitude,
windmills should be hugged
as one does a tree, or a mother,
the warm limestone curvature
suggesting femininity but who
can know or tell,
the skeletal sail frames
stretched out arms and legs
await their clothes,
I watch the heavy oak door
and muse that Windy Miller
from Camberwick Green
will step deftly between
the flapping sheets with his
usual perfect timing,
for seventy windy years
this venerable mill was a
provider, once a mother
always a mother it seems
*
Plenty
ripening apples hang heavily
a mellowing shine like that
of red festive baubles,
underneath the tree
Mavis and her piglet brood
noisily chomp windfalls
and acorns without a care,
golden corn freshly cut and strung
stands idly waiting for the stacks,
in busy kitchens hedgerow fruits
are bottled for sloe and damson
wines for chilly winter nights,
allotments, rod pole and perch
give up their prize vegetable bounty
from weeks of back breaking toil,
schoolchildren rehearse joyous
harvest hymns and make ready
hampers to carry to their church,
thus, with pantries full, bellies too,
we give thanks for such riches
*
Escape Room
from the air, it seems
giant swine might well
inhabit there,
a silver curved corrugated
hood, with one foot firmly
sunken into the mud,
but no porcine lethargy
is found within, judging by
the incessant raucous din,
as myriad ant-like people
scurry to-and-fro,
to frolic down a man made
hill of snow,
in sheer ecstasy they emit
ecstatic toboggan squeals
and refuel after on soft drinks,
beer and fast-food meals,
it’s a leisure palace, a wild
exciting winter ride,
a chilly two degrees below
while bright sunshine beams outside
*
Braeburn
there’s a place
I often pass, where
a half-eaten apple core,
the remnants
of a hasty lunch,
wantonly tossed from
the window of a passing
car, has taken root,
left ten years undisturbed,
lying buried beneath
myriad roadside detritus,
today, on an uncut verge
beside the busy A422,
a perfectly shaped
magnificent Braeburn
stands laden with plump
ripe fruit, never harvested,
a proud crimson beacon
of accidental recycling
amongst the dowdy bracken
*
M K Fortean
my city of glass lies
secluded in plain sight,
hiding its avaricious persona
camouflaged behind mirrored
refractions and reflections,
~
my cuckoo conurbation,
robber baron village devourer
slick consumer of consumers
pell-mell human spa, or
hypno-magnetic Shangri-La,
~
my casino of communities
entombed in mummified modernism
preserved under a fickle lens
a confused composite DNA
more helter-skelter
than helicoid
~
my grid mat arterial entity,
that bleeds to oil and polish its
brilliant shimmering dermis
a courageously proud
showpiece carapace
by which I am blinded
