where art collides philosoperontap

The woman on the train
Would have been quite attractive
But for the disturbance
That kept the smile from her lips.

Her phone call bore no fruit,
“It” hadn’t arrived yet and
She arranged to call back
On the way home from work.

She was in her mid-30s I supposed,
Sitting there in contemplative silence,
Her long dark hair contrasting
With the creamy wool of her coat.

On the table in front was
A pair of red leather gloves
With a velvet scarf that
Matched her crimson lipstick.

When we got to Peterborough
She pulled on the gloves
And, moving down the carriage,
Left the train.

I noticed she wore black boots
As I watched her walking
Off along the platform
The rain beating heavily against the window.

The train pulled away
And I sat there wondering
What her problem might be,
Then I moved on.

It’s cold and bright in Albion tonight
Though the snow covered fields
Have little to reflect
From the greyness of the cloud laden sky.
Tonight the owl hunts in vain
As nothing else stirs,
The silence of its glide
Amplified by the hushed tones
Of the icy blanket beneath.
Trees, ghostly sentinels, patrol the hedgerows
That enclose the hunting grounds.
Smoke rises vertically,
Windless from the occasional chimney,
Whitewashed walls invisible
To all but the owl,
Which is itself seen only
By the trees and
Through the aperture of the imagination.

Personal yet impersonal,
Grubby and soulless,
Addictive, without joy
Source of money, sometimes –
Swallow hard.

Herald of bad news,
Card swallower.

Watch your bent back
In litter-strewn streets
Of cloned city centres

All in all it’s just
Another hole in the wall.

At arms length from other boxes
On the outskirts of town stands a box,
Poorly protected by a flimsy slat fence
A thin hedge takes the full blast of the wind
Across the bare fields and over the quarry below.

Paper walls make for little comfort
And no cats swing here though they
Lap at saucers at the exposed back door.
The cheap settee fills the room, with the TV
Which sits on its altar next to the gas fire.

The small garden patch is shaded by the shed that
Stands large on the patio next to the rusting barbecue.
The paint peeled garage door opens into clutter
Where the car seldom fits,
Idling instead on the tarmac on the front drive.

The local pub survives, just,
Its new brick blandness mixed with gassy beer
And a desperately bored clientele.
Frozen food, fried, microwaved, boiled.
Choiceless, characterless, tasteless.

The box, uninspiring, the bulldozed architecture
Of (optimistically) a 100 years hence,
Thrown together, built with hopes and dreams,
Stands on the outskirts of town
An arms length from other boxes.

It’s cold, wet and miserable.
We are back to the normal British winter.
One or two smiles break the gloom
At Kings Cross station
But they are the exception.
People don’t smile in London.

The waiting room is warm and quiet.
The cleaner talks to the attendant,
With almost a smile!
An effort, forced through the boredom,
After ten minutes collecting
Three empty coffee cups.

I tap away on my laptop.
A woman brushes her eyelashes,
Another eats a sandwich
And some read newspapers,
But most just stare blankly,
Waiting…

It’s freezing point
On the tennis court
Though the action is hot.

Vestigial muscles rediscovered,
Youthful opposition forces the pace,
Balls blaze a trail in the crisp January morning.

Breath hangs in the air,
The score hangs in the balance,
Youth triumphs and handshakes firm.

Finally the snow arrives.
Small flakes drift across the court
Satisfying our romantic sporting spirits.

We retire to Starbucks
For hot chocolate with a warm glow,
Marshmallows and whipped cream.