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

 

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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

My Name Is Ruth ~ a Devizes rhyme

You may have heard of me. My name is Ruth
It’s written on the Cross for all to see
I cried on God as witness to the truth
And died, and here inscribed my history
The tales they told of me – they said I lied
Defied my God before I breathed my last
They said they found the money hid inside
My hand when half a century had passed
You will have heard of me. A widow, I
Came all the way from Potterne in the rain
In winter, to the Market Place, to buy
Eternal shame – I only came for grain
All Wiltshire’s heard of me. My name is Ruth
I may have lied. To God be known the truth

© Gail Foster 12th April 2019

Link to more information here

And audio…

My Valentine

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An erotic sonnet for Valentine’s Day

*

It’s Valentine’s, and hopeful lovers wait
By letterbox and bed with bated breath
While legions of the lonely masturbate
And weep into their tea and wait for death
It’s Valentine’s, a time when teddy bears
Imprisoned in balloons are sent to say
I love you, be the answer to my prayers
And let me fuck you later on today
It’s Valentine’s. Oh go on, if I must
Bare all I’m glad to bare it all for you
I lay my rhyme before you and my lust
And naked raw desire as lovers do
My Valentine. How I burn for your cock
My Valentine. You turn me on. You rock

*

© Gail Foster 14th February 2019

Within the Silence and the Still, the Light

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*

I heard an infant crying in the night

A new born lamb come mewling to the fold

It’s writ on ancient stone in words of old

‘Within the silence and the still, the light’

The moon is high, the mistle berry white

The ice shines in the darkness, in the cold

The stars are born, as all the bards foretold

Within the silence and the still, the light

Insists itself, as soft at first and slight

White shifts within the mist upon the wold

That lift as it comes rising rose and gold

Within the silence and the still, The Light!

New born in winter, beautiful and bright

Within the silence and the still, the light

*

© Gail Foster 21st December 2018

Gareth Southgate

I remember nineteen ninety six
like it was yesterday – the penalty
the way that Gareth kicked the ball and missed
I bet he never thought that day that he
would ever be back in the game again
his name engraved in Lions’ hearts, their
lips aflame with songs of praise, and men
in waistcoat shops, and women swooning where
he might have been. You’ve got to love a man
who wears his pride so modestly, who’s cute
who wears a new suit stylishly, who can
(if dream we dare) bring home the Cup to boot
If on that fateful day he’d walked away
we wouldn’t be here, would we. Let us play.

© Gail Foster 11th July 2018