C Richard Miles Poems

What sort of significant signal is received by concrete radio?
Are there transmitted mystic messages from long-lost days ago?
Do we perceive polemics plastered by a pre-Cold war generation?
Are we deceived ditchwater dark by dumbed-down dissemination?
...

|t wasn’t early that Bank Holiday morning
Ten-o’clock or so.
Some incident had apparently occurred
The previous evening.
...

As Monday's melancholy metamorphoses
Lethargically into hushed apathy,
We wonder if tomorrow, Tuesday
Might be brighter or any better:
...

And when you think
That you have at last, passed the last lap
Tapped into fast chat, got down to brass tacks
Grasped facts, amassed your text, know what to say next
...

Five o'clock on the fifty-six,
a mix
of humanity on board
on Essex Road,
...

A dull damp day - though it is only August
This dawning morning's woeful warning
Hints winter's on its wild unwelcome way
As fluttering, five-point, flat-faced sheets
...

I wish I were a mottled moth:
I'd chomp through canvas, cotton cloth,
And other stuff like corduroy;
Silk, suede and satin I'd enjoy.
...

My bus slopes slowly through the fog-clogged streets
Of humdrum London's all-too-early morning;
I'm off to work as hundreds hug their sheets
Or stretch, quite unimpressed by this day's dawning.
...

The sky above is grim and grey;
They say that snow is on its way
But first, the frost will kill the flowers
And rain will pour for hours and hours
...