Walking in the woods

We might as well be
shearing sheep
instead of sweating over
things we want to change,
but want to keep

it’s
in fukin sane and
that’s like being
in fukin London.

the poet a
complicated halfwit
tails off into a distance
that was never there
and shares a memory,

Paul, an old friend was
diagnosed with something terminal
and his end was nigh,
he flew off to Spain
and said,
‘if this is life
I’m not doing it again’
but
he died in
Bromley by Bow
I know
I was there.

We’re all sleepers
frightened of bogeymen.

What is it that stops You
from smashing them windows?
is it the old biddy who watches
everything and will tell your
Ma it was you?
that she saw you?

You’re either class acts or
brass tacks
it’s in the way you take
the breakage
that defines you
and not
the last thing you see
before
the night closes in,

remember when you’re
shearing sheep
you are just looking
at chaos in
the cosmos and there’s
fuck all you
can do about that.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.