wordsout from Cafe Church · poems by Charles Jobson ←→ · home
Wet morning in May
from a flower lay strewn around an
empty glass vase.
Through the French windows rays of morning sun illuminate the room.
A figure traced out of the landscape walks quietly by
while leaves fallen from a tree rustle in the wind.
accumulation of stained glass and terra
lights up the stately Victorian villas
but like waiting for Mr Nobody
all the vistas lead to a dead end.
cast of an Italian bust looks out of an
We are not in Italy
but in a languishing London suburb.
As the Gods look on
a silent play is being acted out.
players are not unwilling.
They do not know they are acting.
The stage is a street
empty but for voices of quiet derision.
Big City is not far away
waiting to consume all
with ever-reaching tentacles.