< Poems by Charles Jobson >

Wet morning in May

Petals from a flower
lay strewn around an empty glass vase.
Through the French windows
rays of morning sun illuminate the room.

A figure traced out of the landscape
walks quietly by
while leaves fallen from a tree
rustle in the wind.

An accumulation of stained glass and terra cotta
lights up the stately Victorian villas
but like waiting for Mr Nobody
all the vistas lead to a dead end.

A cast of an Italian bust
looks out of an open window.
We are not in Italy
but in a languishing London suburb.

As the Gods look on
a silent play is being acted out.
The players are not unwilling.
They do not know they are acting.

The street is a stage
empty but for voices of quiet derision.
The Big City is not far away, waiting 
to consume all with ever-reaching tentacles.

Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact  godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.