Seeding clouds

Predicting the unpredictable,
that’s not on the timetable,

dressed up to the nines
at
sixes and sevens when
Siouxie’s with the banshees
and
screeching in my ears.

it takes me back to punk rock
smoking barrels and the lock stock,

crocodiles and tears they cry,
I spy
but nothing much.

Stripping down the skyline
revealing underneath,
racetracks up in Hampstead
horses on the heath.

Trams and Trolley cars
rotting hulks and broken spars
time delivers everything
if we
have the time to wait.

Far from nothing clear
when the night falls quiet
with the morning near,
the cat prowls proudly
tail erect,
one dead sparrow
and she
a likely suspect.

when it’s all a matter of degree
and gas mark seven is all I see
because the microwave has
waved goodbye
come the crocodiles and
the tears they cry.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.