Monday, 30 May 2016

Hark! The Lark in the Dark




We found ourselves at three o'clock in the morning on a disused airfield which had long been reverted back to farmland, and all around us the larks were singing in the darkness.
The words are based on the notations made by Walter Garstang.


Wednesday, 25 May 2016

Knettishall USAF airfield

oil on canvas 90cm x 65cm


There used to be an old USAF airfield here, but now it's reverted back to farmland, and the drone of the bomber has given way to the song of the lark.





Tuesday, 24 May 2016

returning



The last year hasn't been so good - illness, death, and more illness. To quote the song, Things can only get better...tomorrow, I'm clearing out the tin shed, sowing some seeds and planting some tomatoes and herbs. It's good to be back.


Monday, 6 July 2015

A Little Englander Speaks His Mind

You can see him propping up every bar
pontificating with a pint in hand
about the state we're in

as he sups his warm beer
and he's not a racist
but there's too many immigrants over here

too many foreigners taking our jobs
and all of these Muslims with their bombs and their burkas

- don't get him wrong, he's nothing against them -

but, you know, the whole place
is going to the dogs

and all of these Romanians
and all of the Poles
living on benefits, getting the dole

and all of these migrants
who never bother to learn English

and foreign aid - what's that about?
charity begins at home, surely?

and while we're at it,
all of these scroungers on the sink estates
these four-by-four mothers
with their snotty-nosed kids

these dysfunctional families
that terrorise the neighbourhoods
and the bone-idle bastards
who've never done a day's work in their lives
while we've got to go to work
just to pay for them sitting on their fat arses

and all of these politicians -
don't get him started -
they're all the bloody same,
too lily-livered, too faint-hearted

only in it to fiddle their expenses
and further their careers

he interrupts himself, as he finishes off his beer

I'll tell you now, he says,
the lot of them's finished,
there's no votes for them anymore round here

the sooner we're out of Europe the better
we'll pull up the drawbridge and keep the buggers out
and we'll have none of these ridiculous rules and regulations
none of your Strasbourg human rites
and none of your Brussels bureaucrats

no more being swamped by Eastern Europeans
no more being dictated to by the frogs and the krauts

we'll make our own decisions, thankyou
and we'll put the great in Britain again

he looks at his watch -
is that the time, he says, he must be going

he bids us a cheery farewell
and steps out into the English rain


Kelling Heath



Now night falls on the heath,
a shimmering silver gloaming;
pale moths flutter above the ling.
Heathen kings sleep in their barrows.

A rustle in the gorse;
a roebuck barks at the darkness,
a vixen yelps.

Twilight’s churr
oscillates in the fading light.







Friday, 26 June 2015

nightjarring




We were told that if you cupped your hands to your ears, you'd be able to pick out the churring of the nightjar more clearly, and that if you wave a white handkerchief you'll attract its attention.




the backroom boys are in charge now

the backroom boys are in charge now

shirt-sleeved committees
sitting round big tables
drawing up strategies
talking to focus groups

striking poses and hurling
well-rehearsed insults at one-another

seeing themselves as characters
in hard-hitting TV satires

but always knowing
deep in their hearts
that the leadership gene

has passed them by