a mouse!
no, a vole!
a vole?!
yes, not a mouse a vole!
a vole!... in the house... and a bank vole at that....
surely if it's in a house it should be a mouse... a mouse in the house, that's how it should be and not a vole in the house for a vole in the house just cannot scan, compute nor tidy sit as tidily in verse so you must be mistaken... for a vole it should be a hole and not a house which is for the mouse....
a mouse in the house...
a vole in the hole...
see?....
and a bank vole at that, I hear you say.... if not then in a hole then should be in a bank and this is not a bank, 'tis a house... a bank vole should be counting money holed in in a safe not abroad to run-amok and mayhem here in this house, this surely sir your poetry has wend a bit astray.......
but surely, and I parry you with your very chosen words, this is not so much the poetry but more the much the vole... in the house!
a vole you say and not a mouse you say...
so...
'twas not-a-mouse in a house then thus was a vole instead, a vole in not-a-hole but a house but not a mouse....
however.....
not any more you say nor vole nor not-a-mouse in the house you say as you have caught it, captured, snagged and snared it, stopped it in its not-a-mouse track.... with a yogurt pot, empty I trust, and shiny card slipped dexterously beneath then lifted also dexterously and released alive and well if not a little shaken by its big adventure, this not-a-mouse in strangers house and no less than a giant on his not-a-mouse heels, all four!....... this all is well that ends well as house and vole or not-a-mouse have gone their separate ways and he has gone to seek a more appropriately rhyming hole to add it to his memoirs for his tiny not-a-mouses to read about one day.
© robert greig 2017
inexorable autumn…
inexorably gathering wind and pace, quickening its step, wearing its game-face and letting its freak flag fly…. bye-bye summer, parting is such sweet…… yah boo bollocks, almost got all prosey there, can’t have that and anyway I don’t particularly miss summer, and it’s gone anyway, probably stolen by those pesky southern hemispherians…. snuck in on equinox night and snatched it away from under a pile of soggy leaves……. well, you wait, we’ll be back with our snuck-feet and snatchy-hands……….
and as the season starts to show its colours so does our government, being a floppy shade of drab, The Brexitives….. which sounds unnervingly like laxative…. and perhaps their aim, to purge the EU from our system…… or perhaps could refer to what comes out of their mouths………. the il’lustreless party who never mind having one poor sods job labelled ‘Brexit Minister’, it seems every member of the party is a Brexit Minister as that’s all our politics is about now from this Brexitalitarian government while everything (and everyone) else rot in the streets with the bursting black bags and overflowing bins left outside many a high street fast-food outlet…. them being the disease-ridden flies and scavenging stray dogs tearing them to pieces….. and each other it seems being in a political party dominated by a battle of (t)wits between a cross between a gonk and a womble (apologies to any gonks and wombles reading), and a plank of wood, the latter being a leader of the party most clearly “not for turning” (note: historical political reference), nor even carving into anything vaguely useful like a balustrade, bobbin or bowl, no tidy joinery going on here I assure……. there’s a greater obsession with Europe now than there’s ever been in a country claiming over 50% of the population (untruth) voted to leave (untruth) the European Union…….
anyway, worry not Mr Gonk & Womble, if it all gets too much there’s another party keeping a seat warm for you who would welcome you with gaping, slithery arms, and so the children won’t hear I’ll spell it… U, K, I, P………
so as we slip, slide on the soggy leaves of inexorable autumn I have four long sticks of rhubarb and trees full of apples, I feel a crumble coming on………
© robert greig 2017
equinox
so soon?
yet bang on time
balanced on a low-slung sun
12 hours of day, 12 hours of night… all things equal….
the swirls and switchback, scribbles and silence of ink creates letters and words, some tied together some kept apart, layers of meaning streaming across the measures and moods of a season as smoothly as autumn mutating from summer…
autumn, season of sighs of falling of lingering send the malingering summer packing, the season of sanguine of floating of lulling… autumn starts here though someone forgot to tell it to wait until now…. it didn’t, and been making its presence most evident for days upon weeks upon days….
light becomes fickle, air becomes fidgety, some call it ‘in between’, falling into the gap that keeps summer and winter, season of mourning of lamenting of longing, apart from each other… not here nor there, one thing or the other… but that misses the point… fails to read the language of weather or pay any heed of its moods, the good, the bad and the slightly unattractive that swing like an unconstrained pendulum…
equinox
shedding light
paying its dues
no sitting in judgement, both absence and presence shredded by wind…. this is no waiting room, waiting for the next one to come along, no twiddling fingers and no restless legs, no fruitlessly checking the time….
12 hours of day, 12 hours of night…
all things equal….
if only for now……..
© robert greig 2017
