Wild Bill Balding Poems

What must you do to get it right?

Love God & love your neighbour. That's all.
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Angled unnaturally in the chair,
wild hair on the wings of his scalp,
the Headmaster stares at the camera
as if to threaten it for daring
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Prisoner and escort
glide into the rooftop station,
as train wheels screech
with sympathy against the check-rails.
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Like

a Red Admiral without a fleet,
a Painted Lady out of lippy,
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The census: successful Southport spinster,
nursing sister, touching 40.
The inheritance: left by your aunt
let down by her lover,
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I let you go into the world,
launched with a kiss from my body's lips;
the cord was cut by alien hands,
and you were part of me no longer,
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After all these years
will I recognise you now?
You burst through the crowd,
this stranger, my flesh and blood,
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Bloody French drivers never use their indicators.
Roundabouts go the wrong bloody way.
All the bloody placenames sound bloody foreign,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.
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The tide comes higher, smoothing out the shore.
It crumbles shell-capped fortresses with ease;
the past day's footprints, scrawled obscenities
and lovers' names are lost for evermore.
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How dim are the dim sum?

Are they just dim at sums
so those who fail their maths exam
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