Before the Move.

Perhaps you will not like my world.
Perhaps you will not be able to adjust.
Everything I have here is mankind made.
Everything I love has been thoughtfully manufactured.
It is true that I have thrown out heaps of shiny plastic,
Preferring wood and steel, stone and glass,
To bowls that cannot break,
Cheap bags that last forever.
Yes, I prefer objects turned upon a lathe
Or carved with a heavy chisel,
But I live in the heart of a labyrinthine urban sprawl
Without a mountain in sight,
A lake or hedgerow,
And my roses are not wild, they have been pruned and grafted
To become four living sculptures in my yard,
The prickly guardians of my private space.
No, perhaps you will not like my urbane London world,
Preferring instead wet grass beneath bare feet,
The larks in flight high above the tilt
Of your lopsided caravan;
Your lonely walks,
Your hidden nooks deep in the tangled copse
That the farmer rarely tackles with his saw.
Yet when we sit and talk all night - all day,
In secret, where no neighbour can disturb us,
We forget to notice the objects that surround us,
The quiet fields, the vast cars blaring hip hop,
The tower blocks, the horses by the marsh,
But quietly watch the thought lines trace upon our faces
Intimate runes that only we can read.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
25th. June 2018.