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