Global warning.

 
An electric fire,
burning your legs,
in Alistair's bedsit in Hastings.
 
Porthdinllaen drowning in the sea,
poor children fat from poverty,
Tories screaming at windmills,
love curling up in a football, mansion squat.
 
Death Metal playing a funeral dirge,
on the stage of Titanic France;
a drugged old lady being electrocuted in the head,
in a pseudo psychiatric work house,
Survivors Speak Out.
 
Snowdrop daffodils flowering very early,
in the place of lost birds,
Peter Blake painting the illustrated woman.
 
Laying wild flowers on the grave of Dylan Thomas,
Lord Byron kissing his boyfriend,
after the last bans are read out in church.
 
Saint Andrew signing on,
thinking of his friend who jumped off a cliff,
after being sanctioned on a work capability assessment test;
hold hands and dance in the rainbow rain,
this is a prayer for the day.
 
Thinking of the freaks,
eating macrobiotic brown rice,
in a small Victorian tenement in Glasgow,
smoking fine world hashish,
smuggled over borders,
as Syrian refugees.
 
Dropping colour, kaleidoscopic, Owsley acid,
at the last Stonehenge Free Festival,
thinking of miners
and carbon capture;
holding hands with an old  socialist,
who saved the steel works.
 
A laughing Kookaburra,
sits beside the black cat,
in a churchyard at Cookham,
of a home made Christmas cake tea,
love is always free;
 
lone pauper funerals are rising,
Glastonbury Tor is a spaceship.
 
~