It's Still Life

What I Saw on the Way to Petworth

Perfect name for a cottage: Blackthorn
A road called Furz.
A 992 should never be lime green.
I doubt I’ll ever see another boomerang-shape cloud.
A hawk is larger than you think, close up.
Poor badger.

After a while, we forgot about death
and how many bricks it’d take to keep a madman under.

He excuses himself,
says he needs the pissouri.
He refuses to use cutesy language
like little boys’ room,
says he’s a grown man
and doesn’t want a toddler size urinal.

He’s off emptying himself –
and I chat with his wife.
We’ve been besties for 40-plus-years.

Says he won’t die from it; he’ll die with it.
Colds are deadly though.
He can catch a virus if someone in the next village sneezes.
He’s missing a spleen now.

Everyone’s in a rush, even the scenery.
Cars queued.
Rush hour.
My thoughts are cloistered.
My mobile just pocket-dialled Greece.
Sorry.
Time.
I just want it to stop.

The meaning of furz ©Misky 2023.