The Unfortunate Case of the Conservative Bollard

My god, you’re still here

guarding that tree.

Think of all the damage you’ve caused

to cars and trucks,

a decade of cyclists capsized?

A fine mission, but there’s no escape.

Your lock is rusted shut.

Yes, I’ve stood my ground.

I’ve paid no heed to passing fads,

impervious to new ideas,

unmoved by talk of climate change.

I’ve stood despite my wounds,

loyal to those who see change

as the work of the devil.

I see, but did you know

that the tree you guarded all those years

has died?

Living Together

by which was meant

they slept in one bed,

shared a bank account,

placed possessions in the apartment just so

according to the rules of trade of horses,

at times with delicate, or other times hot,

negotiations,

including over the canary.

One partner sneezed each time

he passed within a metre of the cage;

the other found it irksome

to keep the bird on the balcony,

favouring daily intimacy –

he was not deaf

and he’d forsaken allergies

at the age of five.

Within a month one tripped,

broke a hip, the other struggled to lift,

stroked, both then trucked

to the local emergency. 

They survived

but I can’t tell you

how the canary died.

Silent Night

Ribbons of light slide, weave and vacate

our rear-view mirror.

They take different paths,

halt or pass.

Shadows and points of light

reflect where we’re from,

hint at what we’ve left behind.

These lights may be the counterpart

of good or evil medieval ghosts,

sent by gods

in whose anonymity lies their power,

whose silence permits capricious acts –

collisions, minor or fatal, on the avenue of life –

to pass unremarked and unexplained

as we drive on.