The B road to Shustoke.



Tootling along getting lost on,
an huge estate of sheds,
Mercia's future of warehouse mice.

The wind and rain as lamb,
proclaims the last of winter,
the Griffin Inn has a warm local coal fire,
ale brewed round the corner,
a parking space reserved for Tom
and a free drink for muddy dogs.

Ada and Dot lie in the churchyard opposite,
the sweeping and the weeping is over,
as the new spring proclaims their loves,
Shakespeare's father wore hand made gloves.

Lisa talks about the valley of dry bones,
as she swats up to meet the Bishop of Birmingham,
once a sun,
now a candle,
the vicar has a starting handle.

Tea bags,
2lb of sugar,
small whole meal bread,
2 pints of milk,
2 tins of soup (kitchen garden),
1lb of butter,
white bin bags,
thick sliced bacon,
a paper,
lemon times one,
ginger biscuits,
1 cream cake.


One more pint of ale on the fire,
for some the outlook is dire,
the barmaid giggles.

~