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In the quiet hours of a Sunday morning,
With the workweek safely settled,
You showed me Figaro’s slow march,
Across a cold kitchen floor,
And told stories,
Of blanco and bulling and the Second Battalion,
About peeling potatoes at Pirbright,
In the twilight of the war.
Then, one grey and distant day,
You ceased to hold the line,
But never retreated.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
A Promethean Pun
Each day, while waiting for deliverance,
You were delivered.
Of Hubris and Global Warming
It was one titanic blunder,
To rob the God of Thunder,
And give the hot property
to us.
While we rashly used his
fire,
To light our suicidal pyre,
Zeus flung his dregs and shrugged.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
EphemeraAt the
edge of empire,
Rome
built a sturdy wall of stone,
To show
the world the vastness of her sway.
Then,
One day,
Her mighty
legions marched away,
And left a shadow on the night watch,
To face
the darkness and guard nothing.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
10 February 2024
