KJR
Your God hisses, splutters, like rain on hot tarmac, as it roves the 92 band.
The White City cannot control it; its hymn has not tamed it.
Mass may be cancelled today. But it is not yet 7:05
The Church sellotaped, broken, missing buttons
Sits on the windowsill. Behind cows lumber like lost storm clouds.
We came here for you. UNESCO they said. Lies we thought.
The English Riveria, no such thing.
Slow, pointless, silent, perfect,
Beauty beyond red crags, broken commons, green walls.
But it found you.
We ran, it followed. Simple as.
Foolish I suppose to think it would leave you alone;
or you would leave it alone.
I wish you smoked. It's better for you.
Hard work never killed anybody. Lies we thought.
The paper today, no garden sheds, well good ones at any rate.
God's teeth snap the toasted roof tile.
It is clearer now; sobre, omniscient, omnipresent, benevolent.
Coffee, strong. Cappucino to show we love you,
Mixed with a fork.
Dulled, tired, laughing. No more pairs in this basket.
"There never will be any more pairs mum",
Poirot will find them. One. Number. At. A. Time.
"I can't see the TV. My eyes are tired,
I must go to bed."
