A languid late summer evening.
Drinking urban cider
‘neath gently breathing trees
by the Barley Mow.
We speak of God
and goings-on in the green-room
at the Marriott,
whose illuminated sign shines blood-red
over unfashionably matte graves (Shalom!).
Both of these we’ve avoided by the mercy of Allah.
Exploring the manifold failings of science,
I ask of my friend “Listen,
is it pompous to think of one’s self as an artist?
And what is an artist anyway?”
“Come, it’s late.” he counsels,
“We’ll save that one for another day.”
Backs are slapped.
Turning our eyes to ersatz flats
with reality lit on interior walls,
I ask “What of Bradbury?”
“What, ho! Only three more walls to build for The Family.”
We separate into the night.
God is in the ground,
Einstein’s in his Heaven
and all’s well with the 21:55 to Taunton.
© Copyright Kevin Buckle 2014