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Weekend Cottager

December 9, 2012

Looking back on my time as a member of the Bulging Briefcase Brigade, working silly hours, I’m amazed I came through it without a nervous breakdown or heart attack!  My character in the following poem is lucky enough to have a weekend retreat in the country.  Free of work pressures, though, his restless mind goes a-wandering…




High flier,

At wits’ end before weekend,

Savagely blasphemous on the sly.


Friday evening,

Blackthorn replacing briefcase,

The slack river slackens his mind.


Foliage breaking,

The late sun stabs his eye,

A bursting shell on the Somme.


More shells,

Through brain-haze wailing,

A cape of carnage poppy-field trailing.



Bitter coffee before smoky stove,

A royal flush pale beside her letter.


Fin flashing, reverie dashing,

He finds himself amongst the big watery blooms

Of his cottage garden.


Indoors again,

Brandy, Rachmaninov,

Fragrant wood coiling at the chisel’s tip.


Patiently, beneath the stair,

Within buckled briefcase lair,

Awaits the temptress Fortune.



Copyright © Paul Beech 2012


From → Poetry

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