Little Fly

Little fly, Thy summers play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not though A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. – William Blake Songs of experience – 1795 Thank you Tarquin.

Jefferson on old age

…but our machines have now been running for seventy or eighty years, and we must expect that, worn as they are, here a pivot, there a wheel, now a pinion, next a spring, will be giving way: and however we may tinker them up for awhile, all will at length surcease motion.

Before the Anaesthetic, or A Real Fright

By John Betjeman Intolerably sad, profound St. Giles’s bells are ringing round, They bring the slanting summer rain To tap the chestnut boughs again Whose shadowy cave of rainy leaves The gusty belfry-song receives. Intolerably sad and true, Victorian red and jewel blue, The mellow bells are ringing round And charge the evening light with … More Before the Anaesthetic, or A Real Fright

Red Glove

A poem I wrote, after seeing a red glove left on the ground in the commuting rush: Little is more miserable than this dropped glove Fingers of red wool, a pavement splatter Soon, buried in snow, to rot in spring Then carried off, swept up in litter Dragged from a pocket with some frantic seeking … More Red Glove