Greg Costello Poems

Staring from above.
Below, in tideless tranquility
Untroubled by man or moon
A lake lay, stretching to meet
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I'm exercising daily on my bike,
To help me find a body I can like,
And though you'd hardly call me slim or svelte,
I scare the mirror less when in my pelt.
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Autumn....
Randomly and carelessly,
Scattering Summer's bounty.
'Til every branch is bare,
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There seems to be three separate species of the male pram pusher.

Firstly, there is the Dad that brims with paternal pride. When out for a family drive, he will have the pram assembled and the child strapped in, before the car has ground to a halt. It would be unsurprising also, had he been involved in the packing of the baby bag, prior to leaving. These Dads are very comfortable wearing harnesses and baby carriers.
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The last time I saw Big Phil alive was through a camera lens,
Jubilant Royal Ascot scenes filling my Samsung screen.
Phil was striding purposefully, chest puffed with pride,
His equine heroine Jenny, clip-clopping wearily alongside.
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An attractive, shy Friesian named Jean
Whose hooves had not felt pastures green
Stayed concealed in her byre
Growing coyer and coyer
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When bodily expired and clay-enclosed,
What fate awaits the spirit unreposed?

To be raised up by kindred tractor beam,
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Standing rooted,
inspecting the playing pitch
of my youth.
Time has now reshaped
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Sideways facing on the settee, our mirrored postures,
Separated only by the width of the draughts board;
It's smooth, round, passive counters
And cold, glazed, monochrome check.
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