wordsout from Cafe Church poems by Charles Jobson   home

Wet morning in May

Petals 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.

An accumulation of stained glass and terra cotta
lights up the stately Victorian villas
but like waiting for Mr Nobody
all the vistas lead to a dead end.

A cast of an Italian bust looks out of an open window.
We are not in Italy
but in a languishing London suburb.
As the Gods look on
a silent play is being acted out.

The players are not unwilling.
They do not know they are acting.
The stage is a street
empty but for voices of quiet derision.

The Big City is not far away
waiting to consume all
with ever-reaching tentacles.