Richard Dickman |
The armchair holds me down.
Tendrils of horsehair tired of posthumous life,
protest through black holes;
hands waving over a high barred sill.
Through frozen glass, the electrifying sounds of
a leaving train seep into the room
and close-clipped nails skid over iced breath.
The iron stallion overcoming the rise,
punches triumph into the dark sky
and screams on, without witness.
A lot has been said about gardens and Eb,
the absence of taverns and inns,
the enforcement of goodness,
the evils of drink,
the abolition of sins.
There's been talk about how the City's lost out
because of the abstinence laws;
there's no kerbside crawlers just looking for fun,
no Thomas Cook pub crawling tours.
There's not much applause for Hertfordshire's Haussmann
now wines are no longer mulled.
There are no treasured ciders or meads laid aside
and more forelocks than maidens are pulled.
But we do have a city in which we can breathe,
homes in which cats can be swung,
schools where our children can learn about life
and upwards grammatically brung.
No pay night libidos are softened by ale,
no livers are shrivelled by gin
and the Salvation Army has now been stood down,
AA membership clinically thin.
All you can say about Letchworth today,
a place with its own cause célebre,
is forget all this nonsense about absent friends
and I say, "Let's hear it for Eb."
Quite a come-back replacing my cursor like that,
making me wait.
Must be a couple of centuries
since people took you serious.
A strangled jar, holding back.
You were all they had in the dark ages
with no sun to dial.
Then there was a modest renaissance
when you took eggs off the boil.
That must have gone against the grain.
Heard it was you inspired the modern traffic jam
And then someone in the poorest taste,
had her husband’s ashes replace the sand;
enjoyed watching him work.
You are still a waist of time.
Hour Glass and Let's Hear It For Eb both appear in the Poetry ID 100 Boxes.