Poetry Please

POETRY PLEASE!

At half past five on Sunday
scraping carrots, shelling peas
and mixing Yorkshire puddings -
I've a date with Poetry please!
As soon as I have tuned to Four
comes David through the garden door
and leaves his wellies on the floor
to bring me a Shallot.

`Someone's moved my slippers!'
`Shall we have a cup of tea?'
He takes the Sunday paper,
and folds it noisily.
Regales me with the sporting scene
St Andrews, Brans Hatch; Aberdeen
is where the Prince of Wales was seen
with Mrs Camelot.

The ploughman homeward wends his weary way
and Chelsea live to fight another sunny day,
I wish I had feathers a fine silken gown,
for Weddings at Whitsun in Cheltenham Town.
With a red hat that doesn't go
Henman fights back -
with a courageous show
against My Last Duchess, there she stands
on the balcony at Lords
with Moonlit Apples in her hands.
The burnt out ends of smoky days
when Auden scored a hole in one, are gone
but David stays...

If I could have just fifteen minutes of my own,
Then I would listen to a poet's dulcet tone.
There must be good news yet to hear
and finer things I ween
than how The Baa Baas slaughtered Bath twelve nil at Hooker's
Green.
Earth has so many things more fair than Franklyn Bruno's knees,
and all I ask is a hush Dear, for a little Poetry - Please!

Suppose I met a traveller from an antique land
he wouldn't care for centuries or bombs along The Strand.
He wouldn't care for penalties or ministers of state
or portraits stolen from the Louvre or even from the Tate.
He wouldn't care for headlines, or sex, or soaps, or sleeze,
at 5-30 on Sunday, he'd tune to Poetry Please!

Oh I missed The Ancient Mariner
sounding off on Radio Four,
yet while I stirred the gravy
I heard Southampton's score.
I missed McGough, and I missed `Crow',
missed Byron, Porter and Monro,
when came a shower of London Snow
was Danny Dever hanged, or no
on Four, five thirty - Sunday?

R.J.