North Canada- Explorer
It seemed idyllic, dappled sun light through boughs. Beautiful alder, sycamore, lime. The shade of leaves canopy- scent-clear rivers. Slopes of fallen pines and beech kernels. However the scenario may not be exactly quite as you envisioned.
In the Red Lion with Craig;
Oh the malnutrition
The porous wrinkled skin
The stage by stage merge with living death
The timid frightened black bear I chased away
The rapidly growing abscess on your ankle
The numbness down your left side
The unexplained blurred vision
Your tattered jeans hanging soaked
The raw red rashes on your legs caused by wet trouser friction
The dissolution of language facilities
The inconsequent mousse you stroked
The alpine hare you chased for two hours, but couldn’t quite catch.
North Canada Echo
An Irish man goes to a doctors. I have this terrible pain. Where? Well everywhere. Can you touch your nose. Yes. Does it hurt. Oh yes. Now your chest. Oh the pain doctor. Now your knee. The pains terrible. Well. Well? You’ve got a broken finger.
North Canada Echo Two
It was poorly thought through. I accept that suburbia is debauched and disingenuous. But there are better less radical ways of fighting back. To carry on after James Dyer realized it was a barren and bleak enterprise is somewhat admirable. If James Dyer where a real explorer and attempted to for instance walk to the north pole, he would die.
Homeless, Victorian Era
Workhouse had special quarters. For tramps/vagrants/travellers. Sometimes called Spikes. Work could include picking oakum- reducing old rope to constituent parts. Or breaking rocks into stones to be sold for road making. Casuals were not allowed to return for 30 days. There conditions where worse than in poor houses. Food was bread and guel.
Were soldiers of the gutter and heaven
I think, I Frank am supposed to feel grateful
For the straw bailed bed
His last thought before a guttural deep sleep
Another days work. Then the soft hay of the bedstead
Tomorrow I will walk to Leigh spike
No one says nowt- so I guess this is our lot
A frown from the missus in Gaberdine and umbrella
A scowl from the man in top hat
Av you a penny sir for the poor
Its not much of a laugh I can tell yi
We don’t drink as we can’t afford to
Walking to next spike, in the biting cold.
Blackhouse, Scottish Borders
(Former residence of poet James Hogg 1770-1835, “The Ettrick Shepherd”)
The Snow slips down on Christmas day
We have been marooned by snow for one month
Her face on the mountain slopes in summer and winter
The sky knows no one’s names. A gossamer duvet.
Love starts again, the finches in the woods
The fire warms us, guitars resound in the mountains
A snipe zig zags to paradise. Then the snow and snow
A naught nestled cottage, becomes a one.
You see here in the Border mountain’s there are no cities
Between here and the North Ocean
Snow buttercup, sun, brambling wings
To bleach the north with orange.
Then love begins again, with dawn and snow
Rice like bread like wine like incense like grass
A gale of clouds and waiting, and icicles of hope
Looking into her face on the mountain slopes.