A straggler left behind,
feeds on acorns all afternoon –
cloudless and balmy.
Oblivious to the unsettling
sky that’s blowing in.
A hurricane maybe?
A force of nature,
he chooses to ignore.
Happy in his ignorance
he’s shrouded by a canopy.
For summer is not so distant.
It clings on despite the turmoil,
preserved for a while.
Before the coming storm
A bunch of poets had a scrap last night.
There was blood and guts, but no high school.
This was the stuff of afternoon Assizes.
No quiet afternoons contemplating Keats.
No hosts of golden daffodils.
A tag wrestling match, ala Mick McManus.
A lyrical punch in the groin.
The Liverpool man said: come head, come head.
But nobody listened; not until the end.
When the Manc lad was laid out and carried out.
Leaving Mr and Mrs Frenzy to clean-up
the mess of bones and gristle.
And some poor sods missing missal.
Its National Poetry Day here in the UK and I plain forgot. Here is Macmillan Cancer Supports poem :