Website coming soon...

This time it's serious...I wear glasses now

The People’s Pond

Of late, there have been rumours of fish,
of local evolution, of regeneration.
They say rusted cans have transformed;
grown fins, heroin holes for gills.

I’ve heard the pram, once prominent
as a fountain, is now spurting forth
at regular intervals, blowing its top
like a drunken whale, emerging at night

as the willows lean in to listen - such
learned trees. Murmurs of mattresses
shifting like sandbanks, carrying dead
dogs to the edge, clearing its depths.

All rumours of course; today strolling
past the bandstand with no band, I see
the willows idle, strumming the surface;
a lone fisherman with a net-full of beer.