Sat nav
Last Christmas they sold like hot cross buns.
Now, at Easter, they’re coming home to roost,
up to their hubcaps, like this one,
snug in The Avon at Luckington.
On the steep route from my local,
someone’s put a notice
warning White Van Man of the risk to his sump
on the hairpin 1 in 5 ahead.
Every generation finds new miracles. This is ours –
to rediscover the lost green roads
without mapping the terrain.
The eye in the sky will see us through
fire and flood, the valley of shadow,
with never a contraflow in sight.
“Trust me” it says, and we do,
even to the brink,
finding - as the sat-nav’s shouting “U-turn, U-turn!”
and the front wheels spin on contours of sky –
that this god, like all gods, from Baal to Blair,
can move in mysterious ways.
Betrayal
The day the boards went up
I sat on the stairs with him
and waited for the knock.
One last thing to be done,
like handing over keys
or reading the meter.
He seemed surprised when I
grabbed him. Don’t think I’d
bothered to feed him. No point.
Small for his age, and soft.
He went in so quietly.
No scratching, no mews.
A creak as they strapped the lid.
His eyes, twin torches,
burned behind the wicker.
It gets to me now, but hindsight’s tricky.
In those days I’d have sent
my Granny to the wire.
This poem is from David Ashbee’s collection “Loss Adjuster” (bluechrome 2007)
Model Railway Exhibition
A chap thing,
for chaps of a certain age,
whose wives serve home-made pastries.
It takes a big shed or substantial loft
to rig up a layout like that,
but at least he’s not under her feet.
Has to be steam, even if electric.
No point in spoiling a Nutwood
with its baker’s van and milk-churns
by a diesel.
A guard is frozen with his green flag
and the cart-horse never stirs,
but the trains keep running,
sucks to Doctor Beeching.
Down with a lower quadrant
and it’s off,
edging past the ground-frame
to the level-crossing gates.
Tweak a lever, benign torturer,
and then the sparks fly.
It’s a manic mouse, scuttling
up molehill, past knot-hole
and out of sight inside the knobbly tunnel.
“Look Mum, look!
Here it comes,”
I shout in my head
as I tug an invisible sleeve,
longing to poop-poop like Mr Toad.
And I only came in from the rain.
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1 comment:
It might be a chap thing, but this wife of a certain age (who never bakes pastries) really appreciates "Model Railway Exhibition".
Rather than fuss about the enthusiast being under my feet, I'd be joining him in the shed or loft, donning a railway-woman's cap and blowing my whistle!
Yes is HAS to be steam - beautifully sooty-smelling steam - not rotten, oily, feasibly carcinogenic, diesel fumes.
Ah - Nutwood, bakers' vans, milk churns and car horses! The era is immediately pinned down to the pre-sixties. The era of Rupert Annuals, Hornby Double-O, Dinky Toys and Eagle comics (I had two - older - brothers and always preferred their toys to dolls' tea sets!)
My first poem (as a child) was a criticism of Dr Beeching's policy. It went like this:
Dr Beeching's on the move
trying to make our transport pay but I don't see how he can improve
by closing down the railway.
He's closed two thousand stations down
in many different places.
Now everybody has a frown
on frustrated faces.
And now the roads are in a mess
and up soars the accident rate.
Oh dear, oh dear, I must confess,
England's in a terrible state.
Not a patch on your poem - but, hey, it rhymes :-)
I love the manic mouse, scuttling up molehill. And I love the way you are transported back to childhood, tugging at your Mum's sleeve and finding it hard - as an adult - not to let rip with that poop-poop!
Another great poem, David!
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