2670118
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 de-livered.
Of Hubris and Global Warming
It was one titanic blunder
to rob the God of Thunder,
And give his flaming property
to us.
When we used the stolen fire,
To light our suicidal pyre,
Zeus rolled his eyes 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
