A small pile of red bricks in Amersham, All that remains of Keith’s local party, Where once there were hopes of building a wall, Now there is little chance left there at all. Mandelsonian disrupters at work, Take us on magical mystery tour To strange, prefigured, Orwellian place, Where everyone has a two sided face, Where lies are piled sky high in full out trays, And no-one believes what anyone says. New Labour nonces blame Corbyn, again, Lib Dem romancers fling new austere pain. Garden TV parties spring up in pubs, Football means more than political subs.
I’m overcome by realisation. By the life lived by a woman, Ella. Known as Jean Rhys she short circuits my mind. Brought up short in The Wide Sargasso Sea, I am knocked off my sleek sex waxed surfboard. A hurricane of understanding comes, Climbing back on my board, bracing for the Giant third age wave, rolling over weeds, Ready to be ridden in clear sunlight, Towards shining, swirling, vortex centre, Where the flotsam and jetsam disappears, Sucked into deepest blue water below, To forever swim down amongst the eels, Never escaping dark, tangled, green, reeds.
Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, Aberbanc – Easter Monday 2017. Revised in the red bedroom, 23rd June 2021.