Thoughts in Early December

The last load of leaves carefully baggedSags by the side of the leaky hut.The sky, gun-metal grey, would certainlySmile at my mood if it could.Surely the last trip to the tip I muse,And the long wait in a long line of cars –Cars full of modern excrement whichCannot be flushed out of sightOr dumped in a wheely-bin,Burned in a back garden.

The leaves could have been burned and I couldHave stood and watched the flamesBurn away the past as the smell of the smokeTook me back to the bonfires in a side gardenOf our new council house.How much simpler things were back thenWhen even t.v. was black and white;Most things unwanted we could easily burnIn that world where men lived for their pint;The oceans did not vomit plasticOnto our shores – plastic we cannot burn.

But nor can we burn the memoryOf that dark-smokey world whereQueers were pariahs, and women’s hopesBurned on a bonfire of male spiteIn a Britain where so many dreamed -Of a Britain only White.