THE TYRANNY OF THE RASPBERRY PATCH

                                                                             XXVIII

I thought emotional blackmail was for humans
Someone's attention to retain,
But that was before I discovered
The tyranny of the raspberry cane.

I feed and weed and monsters
When the experts say I should
But now that summer is here
And the weather is really good ...

It's difficult to go out
And ignore the plaintive sight
Of redly clustered berries
Free from pests and blight.

There is sorrow and silent reproach
In each red compound eye.
I avert my gaze and steal past
But hear a heartfelt sigh ...

Of raspberry rejection
And it breaks my heart
To spurn their ripe surrender
To cream - or flan - or tart.

But I did spend four hours yesterday
And five the day before
Picking and picking and picking
'Till my hands were red and raw.

My friends all come to help me
But I still can't keep on top
Of this year's ruby harvest
My bumper raspberry crop.

I supose I could cut them down?
No - I couldn't be such a brute
And nothing can brighten a drear winter day
Like a bowl of ripe red summer fruit.


To G.L.
(Thank goodness for freezers)  

July 1992

IDEAL HOMES - KITCHEN

                                                               XXVII B


Whenever I hear a woman say
She cannot live without
A fully fitted kitchen
I always think about ...

A woman that I once saw
In an Indian street
Who cooked while ragged children
Played around her feet.

No micro-wave for her -
Just a pile of smouldering sticks
And instead of a ceramic hob,
A line of standing bricks.

A paving slab of basalt
Was her chopping board
In rusty tins and bottles
Her few groceries were stored.

She's grateful for a shared cold tap
For beyond her wildest dreams
Is a sink with running water
And a kitchen neat and clean.

There's a mouthwatering smell of spices
As hot hoil sizzles and spits,
I'm sure it tastes as good as anything
Served at the Hilton or Ritz.


17.2.1992
Near D.N.Road, Bombay

IDEAL HOMES - BEDROOM

                                                                    XXVII

In the affluent Western home
A bedroom has to be
A place of peace and comfort
And quiet luxury.

The carpet is soft and thick -
There's a duvet covered bed.
The decor should be restful -
The home designer said.

The windows are velvet curtained
To keep out all the light,
But the owners often cannot sleep
And toss and turn all night.

Unlike the poor and homeless
Who live on Bombay's streets ...
They have no beds or duvets
No pillows - no sheets.

Their mattress is the pavement -
Their pillow a slab of stone,
Grinding comfort-free poverty
Is all they've ever known.

They sleep because they're exhausted,
They do not need potions or pills
Unlike their wealthy countrymen,
Insomnia's not one of their ills.

So instead of taking a sedative
Next time you cannot sleep
Try counting Bombay's homeless
Instead of counting sheep.

19.1.1991
Wodehouse Road
To.M.W.

WORDSWORTH HAS RUINED THE LAKE DISTRICT

                                                                             XXVI


Look  at what Wordsworth
Has done to our Lakes countryside.
The wild and rolling fells are now
Swamped by a day tripper tide.

Where Wordsworth shared his solitude
With hosts of daffodils
Drivers now queue nose to tail
Up and down the hills.

Wandering lonely as a cloud
Is impossible if you are near
Derwent Water - Ambleside
And specially Windermere.

Wordsworth's Lake District
With wild flower meads was scented.
The air we breathe in now has been
Combustion engine vented.

As everybody seeks out
The Lakeland Wordsworth knew
Boots destroy his daffodils
And tourists ruin the view.

The cars - noise - litter
Must make the locals lament
That Wordsworth didn't see daffodils
In Sussex - or Cornwall - or Kent.

March 1989
To G.C.