Ancient Lights

So they are done, the seventy years
And now the rapid weeks rush
Ever faster to oblivion.
Familiar names more frequently
Announce their leaving in the Telegraph
But as with wartime lists of casualties
My name could be there too,
And isn't. I am fortunate,
All systems working and
So much to savour still.
It does not do to contemplate
The bridge or bridges still to cross
And least of all to think the loss
Of lovely Her who means so much.
No, no, for there are grandchildren, and travelling,
Grass to cut, committees, watching shares
Perhaps tomorrow I'll go through
Those attic boxes, throw away
Some junk, sort out old papers
Perhaps. There's lots of time. Perhaps.


[c] John Wedge

Scene

Sheep, single minded, crop the green.
Beyond them, Friesian cows, head down
Enhance the sun-topped rural scene,
An English summertime ideal.
The sheep have lost their lambs, now chops
The cows their calves, now bloodless veal.

John Wedge
1993

Glasnost

Dead brothers photographed in forage caps
Smile at us still. Together we had known
The chill hypnotic thirties threat of war
And war itself. Wrenched from our peaceful ways
We saw Dunkirk, had watched the French collapse,
Felt proud that we were on our own. The years
Limped on, while field and desert, jungle, sea
And air imposed their cruel chill.

Brought peace, of sorts - the Russians had the bomb.
We married, blew upon the embers of careers,
Raised our families; in parallel
Berlin, Korea, Suez, Vietnam
Erupted, fouled this earth, absorbed young lives.
But we were not at war. Indeed, our sons,
Aberrant generation upon which fell
No call to arms, could, menace-free, propose
And realise - and this for year on year.

Came Gorbachov. His epic Openness
Engulfed the man, his party and his land,
Yet raised the curtain on a grateful world.
Ironic that, while nations should oppose
But not engage for fear the mushroom cloud,
Their helots fresh-released from thraldom should
Each tribally contest his neighbour 's ground.

Pray God that E.E.C maturity
Should world-wide see the rifle disavowed.

John Wedge
1992

The Great Illusion

Red crocodile of piety
Eyes down, the solemn singers tread
Red carpet to cathedral stalls,
An unseen halo round each head.

Kempt blue-eyed blond young innocents,
Intense bespectacled small boys,
Plump, thin, short, tall - their gravitas
Is only equalled by their poise.

And oh ! Those voices ! Can there be
A truer sound, epitome
Of youth,and sun, of love and joy,
A world without depravity ?

The service ends. As robes are hung
Life's reassumed with youthful zeal.
Abuse is hurled and people shoved
And there is noise. The boys are real.

(c) John Wedge
1998

Requited Love

The small, soft fingers clasp
A grandparental hand,
Confiding, seamless love
Three generations spanned.

Between us lies a world
Of books, exams, career,
Mate-finding, parenthood.
Finale, Overture.

But here and now we shape
A live activity.
We read, play games, we draw
In true felicity.

Exciting to respond
As you reach to explore
Each joy your eye or mind
Adds to its precious store.

My privilege to share
Your life since it began,
Though I shall only taste
A morsel of its span.



[c] John Wedge 1998

Profiteroles

Temptation's trolley glides my way
Evil forces tease my eye -
Gateau, trifle, apple pie,
Mousse and cheesecake grace the tray.
And gentle, yielding little choux,
Nursing subtle, sensual cream,
Pristine chestnut heads agleam
Taunt my will. Can I subdue
The urges rising as they flirt ?
My mind goes back to last night's scales.
Reluctantly resolve prevails -
Fruit salad is my just dessert.


(c) John Wedge


[This poem appeared in The Literary Review]

Break

The playground floods with young. Immediately
Soprano shouts and shrieks confirm a brief
Suspension of the classroom discipline
As teachers snatch their momentary relief.

Much action. Arms and legs. A whirl of play.
Argument and laughter, games of "It".
Some expert footwork over skipping ropes
And balls projected, tossed up, kicked and hit.

Less physical, in corners, twos and threes
Debate the pressing issues of the day
Or tease each other, hatch a wicked plot
To cause some hapless teacher disarray.

But dallying on the fringe a child stands
Alone and sadly contemplates its shoes.
No place in the kaleidoscope for it.
Is loneliness an option it would choose ?


(c) John Wedge 1999

Privilege

We are your history enjoying your today
And we have time to be with you,
To read to you, contort ourselves to play
A just-invented game, time to supply
The answers to your frequent "Why?"

Since you were born -
A distillation of your parents' deep
Abiding love, of many generations drawn
Together down the ages to be you -
We have held your baby fragrance, petal skin,
Exquisite infant fingers, seen your crawl,
Triumphant totter, sturdy walk, heard you begin
To talk. Now, soon, a canvas new, your school
And pride in drawings, Christmas plays. We shall be there
Involved, supporting, privileged that we
Are part of you and you of us. So much we share.



(C) John Wedge

Star Ferry - Hong Kong

The heart of Hong Kong has a regular beat
But the heart of Hong Kong is not building or street.
Star Ferry it is which pulses that place
Star Ferry which shows its dynamic face.

The surge of young people in shining white shirts
And dark, almost uniform, trousers or skirts
Creates chatter and clatter as seat backs reverse
And the ferry returns on its course long rehearsed

Past tugs and their barges, small boats single-manned,
Great ships with huge stacks of containers to land
And family junks sporting washing to dry -
Overhead wheel black kites punctuating the sky.

On the island itself lofted white stalagmites
Are the base for the wielders of financial might
But the go-downs have gone from the shore of Kowloon
And vast shopping malls have taken their room.

Island of enterprise, aura and spell
Mainland of factory, store and hotel -
Though the tunnel may feed them and commerce sustain
Star Ferry's their lively and life-giving vein.




(c) John Wedge

London

Multiculture flecked but England still -
Theatre, university, the Crown,
Department store, finance house, football ground -
All life itself displayed in this proud town.

Note Chelsea's confidence of place and style,
The World in Knightsbridge, Eaton Square's disdain
Hyde Park's calm, its Corner's frantic swirl,
And Middle Eastern opulent Park Lane.

Off Piccadilly's artery run veins
Of quality and art. Young Eros mans
The frontier of Leisure, complex heart
Of London's night-wide entertainment span.

In Holborn's void, insurance, print and law
Subserve the princely towers of E.C.3,
Whose shirt-sleeved dealers and their screens reflect
The ebb and flow of the economy.

And ebbs and flows the noble, lovely Thames
Custodian and core of this, our town,
Each bridge a rib of London's history
Each river light a diamond in her crown.


2000

Meanwhile

He was at Alamein and Anzio
Then in the City. He enjoys, with Joan,
The privilege of seven grandchildren,
The baby-sitting, visits, telephone.
A morning shopping stroll, the time of day
With friends; then gin, and lunch of soup and cheese,
The crossword, armchaired doze, a cup of tea
With Countdown, television  these
The framework of an undemanding drift.
True, there are responsibilities
He's treasurer and sidesman at the church
While Joan arranges flowers, does the teas.
They're members of the National Trust, of course,
Do theatre visits with the local club,
Have dinner here and there with long-time friends,
And sometimes slip round to the corner pub.

But much too often there are funerals
Where, looking round, they speculate Whose turn
Is next ? Each symptom suffered now disturbs
Is this the herald of the final urn ?






© John Wedge

2001

F r o l i c

In my heart are young maidens and laughter
And maypoles and music and dance.
There are hampers from Fortnum and Mason
And exquisite bottles from France.
Round the pole men are chasing the maidens,
As I would if I had the chance.

In my head I know this doesn't happen -
Though the young ones are frolicsome still,
The lute's given way to the disco
While tablets are taken for thrill,
And the maidens don't need so much chasing -
They're content to rely on the pill.

In my body, alas, there's no question
Of donning the cap and the bells.
A crossword is my recreation
Though my brain may be losing its cells.
But the sight of a maiden in springtime
Is a pleasure that age never quells.



[c] John Wedge

First Published Literary Review 1998

One World

She leaves the cat.Her daily two hours in the world
Start travel-pass bus-borne with folk who knew,
As she did, rationing, Greer Garson, doodlebugs,
A mate. Health bulletins exchanged consume
The quarter hour, and at the supermarket doors
Old limbs creak down. She takes a basket then
Begins the gentle saunter through the aisles.
The purple shine of aubergines beguiles
But what are they? Still, since the war she's learned courgettes,
Though none today. So, slowly, every lane
Is covered, watching shelves and people. Back again,
This time a small Economy pork pie
And Whiskas tin are basketed. The longest queue,
To pass the time and see what people buy,
Then back to the bus, her lonely flat, T.V., the cat.






{C} John Wedge