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The Big Freeze, cover

The Big Freeze (December 2010)


Contents: The Big Freeze

An extract –

And to the east of York,
In a lonely house on the gentle wolds,
Between Thwing and Burton Fleming,
A retired reverend all alone,
Watches from his upland home,
Heavy snowflakes come thudding down,
Whilst thinking – my word this bedroom’s chilly,
Though that’s hardly surprising at half past three,
So maybe I should put the kettle on and make some tea,
But instead he turns on the radio, now a nightly ritual,
To hear broadcast from down,
The aussies tear the English team asunder,
Whenever they meet on Vulture Street,
In the baking Brisbane sun.
But it’s just not cricket, when they’re on a sticky wicket,
To call our best batsman a pommy ponce
These aren’t kind words and one of them I overheard
Spoken yesterday by a cocky choir boy looking so absurd,
With floppy, foppy hair that flounced,
Who so rudely denounced
Me as a stupid ponce.
So best back to sleep to dream of blissful Norman fonts,
With snowflakes sticking to their sides
Settling on blind arcading, obliterating symbols of the Trinity
And turning Romanesque rigmarole and serpentine stone scenery,
All cut crude and deep,
Into the soft white serenity of sleep.

Font, Brecon Cathedral

Font, Brecon Cathedral


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