Edwin Hopper Poems

Driving home down a Wiltshire avenue.
Past a stone age mound and a gypsy camp.
Thatched houses. The sign of a pub I knew.
A classic motor, on a garage ramp.
...

She said “I know you’ve a book of your own.
You can still go visit the library.”
Then, she must be offering me a loan.
She’s nice, so it won’t take bribery.
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In the lunchtime bar of Jude The Obscure
Emma rocks Callum, her gorgeous baby boy.
He laughs with innocence that’s utterly pure.
Old boozers frowns turn to something like joy
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In cold dark away from the cities bright,
with engine turned off, and blanket tight,
a lonely working trucker, sleeps tonight.
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There is no rhyme for orange,
according to my mate Ange.
So, please, let your thoughts all range,
in old English good or strange,
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If you're fed up with the tired old cliché,
bored dancing at the local palais,
if you want a place that's really risqué,
then drive out beyond the street lights and stray,
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Remember happiness is rare and not a right
If you trust someone to share your day
Hold on to their love in the warm bed night
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I’ve always worked for the greater good.
Of course Buckingham Palace know my name,
But I’ve never found parking at Abbey Wood
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Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.
The nurse takes my bed pan with a fake smile
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June
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No I am not a man to hold the stage.
My brains aren't overly endowed
I daydream quietly and write a page
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