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<
Poems
by Charles
Jobson
>
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
street is a stage
empty but for voices of quiet derision.
The
Big City is not far away, waiting
to consume all with
ever-reaching tentacles.
© Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.