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

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

Rain Dance

*

Waiting for thunder, waiting for rain
Waiting for lightning to strike on the plain

When will it come, when will it come?
The heat of the sun on the skin of a drum

Watching horizons, watching the hills
Watching the widening cracks in the rills

When will it come, when will it come?
One drop of rain on the skin of a drum

Dreaming of rivers, dreaming of seas
Dreaming of streams and delirious trees

When will it come, when will it come?
Two drops of rain on the skin of a drum

Thinking of doomsday, thinking of drought
Thinking of reservoirs all drying out

When will it come, when will it come?
Three drops of rain on the skin of a drum

Dying for water, dying of thirst
Dying of waiting for heaven to burst

When will it come, when will it come?
Four drops of rain on the skin of a drum

Crying for mercy, crying for men
Cry for the rain to come falling again!

Hearing it come, hearing it come
The beat of the rain on the skin of a drum

Waiting for thunder, waiting for rain
Waiting for lightning to strike on the plain

*

© Gail Foster 27th July 2018

Our Jerusalem

– on Donald Trump’s visit to the United Kingdom

*

And in the heat of summer time

Walking by England’s fountains seen

A man who thought he was a God

And King of England’s pastures green

We did not countenance his crime

Drew lines upon our crowded hills

And sang Jerusalem, Trump is here

Among us – dark Satanic chills

Bring me balloons of tan and gold

Bring me cartoons and bold satire

Bring tea and beer; Oh, clowns untold!

Bring me the jokes that will not tire!

I will bring cheese to fuel the fight

Or something silly in my hand

This isn’t Trump’s Jerusalem

And we don’t want him in our land

*

© Gail Foster 12th July 2018

Years of Hurt

Whilst the majority of domestic violence perpetrators are men I am fully aware that men are sometimes victims as well, therefore this poem is written in such a way that ‘he’ and ‘his’ can be substituted with ‘she’ and ‘her’, and ‘girls’ with ‘boys.’  

When it comes to domestic violence, no-one is a winner…

Oh God, did England win? That means that he
is coming home. I’ve done the washing up
and cooked him steak and crinkle chips for tea
and put his tinnies and his football cup
beside his chair and switched the telly on
All done. I wait. It could go either way
Of late it’s gone a little bit like this
He comes in in a ‘you’re alright mate’ way
insisting on a bear hug and a kiss
and then the beer kicks in – his tea is cold
his boss is mean to him, his car is shit
and I’m the Germans, oh and I am old
I told the girls at work he didn’t hit
me, lied about the bruise beneath my shirt
Don’t talk to me of Lions. Years of hurt.

© Gail Foster 7th July 2018

Easter Sunday; Devizes

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for John (Ted) Dexter

*

no cars on the road

all of the town sofa bound

food lulled and sleeping

walking home, a man

evensong’s slow gentle peace

on him like monks’ robes

old man and poet

meet in quiet communion

by the graveyard gate

souls of the same shade

in unspoken fellowship

watching the birds fly

on the bridge, silence

white blossom, silver water

Easter Sunday light

*

© Gail Foster 17th April 2017

Colin’s Garden

For Colin Hopgood, a good man of Devizes, who has been milkman and Mayor, and tends the allotment by Quakers Walk that gives so much pleasure to so many…

*

‘Tis Spring on the allotments, in the air

The scent of hyacinths, the sense of bees

The sunlight on the cabbages and trees

And sitting in the greenhouse, on his chair

Remembering past summers, and the Fair

The Kenyan heat, the icy Kennet freeze

The smallest seedlings grown into sweet peas

Is Colin, father, lover, milkman, mayor

He’ll tell you, if you ask him, where the boat

That sits amongst the marigolds once sat

He’ll show you his banana tree, and bowers

And time and swans will fly, and barges float

Until he calls his dogs, and doffs his hat

And sends you home with vegetables, and flowers

*

© Gail Foster 23rd March 2017