The Barley Mow
By Parson Thru
A languid late summer evening.
Drinking urban cider
under gently breathing trees
by the Barley Mow.
We spoke of God
and goings-on in the corporate dorm,
whose illuminated sign shines blood-red
above the cemetery wall (Shalom!).
Both of these we've avoided so far by the mercy of Allah.
In a moment of intimate nonsense,
I asked of my friend "Listen,
is it pompous to think of one's self as an artist?
And what is an artist anyway?"
"Come, it's late." he counselled,
"We'll save that one for another day."
Backs were slapped.
Turning our eyes to ersatz flats
with reality lit on their walls,
I asked "What do we think of Bradbury?"
"What, indeed? Only three more walls for The Family."
Watery-eyed, we separated into the night.
God is in the ground,
Einstein's in his Heaven
and all's well with the 21:55 to Taunton.