Debris from trashed houses flies high above London,
Chip board and cheap tiles buckle like bats wings
Under the heft of the wind.
Early Spring weather, squalls and showers
Wrecking swathes of streets and quiet cul de sacs
Easily as a Russian Tank rips through fields of wheat.
Hail stones clattering against my backroom window
Zing their automatic rifle fire,
But not one fragment penetrates the glass.
If I were in the street I would scurry to a doorway
Hood pulled over my head. A refugee in flight
From forces I could never overcome.
But life can be light hearted. Caught in this storm
Our Kerry Blue crouched underneath a hedgerow
When my daughter tried to walk her in the park.
She did not want to imitate a canine cosmonaut
Lifting off through clouds into the roaring dark,
Or to be tossed like a stick into the dogs` Nirvana.
Close to where she crouched, early daffodils flourish,
Tall and straight, laughing silently.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. - 22nd. February 2022.
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