Of market-stalls and pigeon-clustered eaves,
of cenotaph and foggy hunchback moor;
of charity shop and church, and grimy leaves
spiralling through the bookies’ swinging door
then settling with the bookies’ pens, the stubs
and the grey-white trainers dangling from the stools;
of warmth inside a dozen darkening pubs
whose windows smear your streetlamps into jewels.
My children roam the woods, I hear them say
'Oh father dear we really want to play
indoors, online, plugged in and out of sight.
This playing in the woods just isn't right.'
Some, said Blake, see nature all deformity.
Were he alive he'd tweet his nonconformity.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Mark McDonnell would
be pleased to hear them.