PROMPTS

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Black helicopters, nodding to the crowd

Postmen with scythes

Young men in tights, hamsters in their pants

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We should be screaming

Before this water, there was rubble, before that a village

The trams hum, bearing the men away

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The last flight of the lightning

Behind the domes and high, slick windows

The slippery banks we climb when wanting more

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Corridors of waiting shoes

The things my children taught me

It was the day before I never came home

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Perhaps morning will pardon us

Postmen, Milkmen, could deliver pills.

Broken windows, jagged holes, us!

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We need to find a way of keeping them quiet

The country lanes jammed. Oh, the irony!

Reading “Aubade” I see a line I used

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How much of being old is can’t be bothered

Wheat, folding slowly

Teak, Sandalwood, Ebony, Mahogany

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I once failed the postman’s exam.

The sound, the bite of the axe

The inevitable, inexorable machine

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Soft light above, streets dark as oil

The factory hooter, the clocking-off clock

I know you’re dead, but I apologise