So Many More Coffins Than You

There once was a President who
Didn’t give one fuck or two
‘It’s tremendous!’ he said
‘We’ve got so many dead!
And so many more coffins than you!’

There once was a President who
Said that science was simply not true
‘All this talk of a spread
Is all fake news!’ he said
‘What’s that smell?’ he said. ‘That’s the dead.’ ‘Ew.’

There once was a President who
Killed his country. ‘The size of the queue
Of our glorious dead
Is enormous!’ he said
And it was. And it grew. And it grew.

© Gail Foster 28th March 2020

 

We Call The People That We Love Inside

The shops are shut.  Our hearts are open wide
Before we put the Closed sign on the door
We call the people that we love inside

‘Last orders at the bar!’ the barman cried
Our days of wine and roses are no more
The pubs are shut.  Our hearts are open wide

The schools are shut.  How hard the children tried
For what, they sigh, was all our striving for
We call the people that we love inside

No space made out of stone for God to hide
At home alone we face a higher law
The church is shut. Our hearts are open wide

Our doors are shut.  In darkness we abide
We tear our hair and wash our fingers raw
With all the people that we love inside

The price we pay for freedom is our pride
What price our freedom if we win the war
The shops are shut.  Our hearts are open wide
We call the people that we love inside

© Gail Foster 23rd March 2020

Cummingsland

What land is this where we allow
The likes of Cummings to be king
All England bow and kiss his ring
For this is Cummings’ country now

What land is this where we allow
One man to say if birds can sing
Or bells be rung, or bees can sting
Must this be Cummings’ country now?

What land is this where we allow
The likes of Cummings to dictate
Are we the masters of our fate
Or is this Cummings’ country now?

What trick of light, what sleight of hand
Turned England into Cummingsland?
Good men of England, take a bow
For this is Cummings’ country now

© Gail Foster 14th February 2020

Begone Before We Weep, Young Vicar, Go

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On the occasion of the Reverend Ben Rundell-Evans’ last Holy Communion service at St. John the Baptist, Devizes, before his departure to Upper Stour

We’ll miss you in the vestry, little priest
And in the choir where we hear you sing
And at the altar where you share the feast
On Sunday mornings.  Nineteen bells to ring
In Stourton, Bourton, Kilmington, and Zeals
Three sets of six, and one for chiming hung
And practices on Mondays – silent peals
Unspoken hymns of glory softly sung
We’ll miss you, little priest.  You tidy up
The vestry, and are humorous and kind
The reverence with which you hold the cup
Is absolute.  And oh, your lively mind –
So wise for one so young, so good to know
Begone before we weep, young vicar, go

© Gail Foster 6th December 2019

If Greta’s Right

If Greta’s right, then we might have to give
our cars up, and stop flying and perhaps
stop eating meat – why how’s a man to live
without a car as big as other chaps

If Greta’s right (how can she be, she’s just
a girl, and what is more she’s slightly odd)
We’ll have to live on lettuce, and a crust
And shiver, and in winter go unshod

That Greta’s wrong. That’s easier to say
Much easier than looking at ourselves
It’s not as if we’ll live long anyway
Sod Greta. Pile the plastic on the shelves

And light the sky up bright with fossil fuels
The children lie. The scientists are fools.

© Gail Foster 23rd September 2019

 

Bus Stop Equinox

Bus Stop Equinox by Gail Foster

A sonnet on the subject of the Autumn Equinox,
and being at the bus stop at Avebury

Has Summer gone? Oh God, she was divine
Those crazy kisses, that incessant heat
Last seen by The Red Lion on the street
And off to Swindon on the 49 –
Another bus is coming, so it’s fine
That Autumn makes an old heart skip a beat
Her hazy colours, and her scents as sweet
As blackberries that tumble from the vine

We stand here by the bus stop, and the breeze
Blows chillier than yesterday – we wait
She won’t be long, although she’s sometimes late
(Devizes traffic, everyone agrees)
Less leaves than yesterday – we watch them fall
She has to come from Trowbridge, after all

© Gail Foster 21st September 2019

Quis? Ego

~ on the anointing of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

So what if it was just a drunken dare
Quis? Ego! Made at Eton long ago
I dub thee Boris of the Golden Hair
Servus, servum, servi, servo, servo
So what if afterwards they went to town
and ordered tiny sparrows stuffed inside
six rare exotic birds and chased it down
with virgins’ tears in mouths so open wide
one could believe designed to fit the poor
in at such times there are no partridges
Amo! Amas! Deus! Deum! and more
Dom Perignon! To Boris! Boris is
The Chosen One! So long ago, the dare
At Eton, or more probably, elsewhere

© Gail Foster 24th July 2019