The ballad of St. John's Square. Sky white as good Afghan heroin. A prelude to snow on the wind.
The chestnut tree hisses blind panic. Her fruits never bargain for this. Sunday church bells ring jazz out for Jesus.
It's Mary's last night alone in the choir. She's fallen in love with the virgin, you see. Even though she knows he's a liar.
Mr. Johnson stands in his doorway at the wonderment of news taking flight. His dog raffles, howls for his mission. But the cats have crept home for the night.
The first flake falls.
The first flake falls upon the black car. Where nervous Terry fidgets inside. Carnations splayed out on the back seat. Begging for Julie to let go of her pride.
Now the conkers are falling as if maces. Boys filled whoppers with stealth in the slips. The branches bow down to the blizzard. Shadow dancing along.
And here's lost Arif traipsing the graveyard. A chicken korma and rice to deliver. Louise Marston rests in peace. He was there that day at the river.
The verger and Mary are all tangled. The empty pews reverentially hushed.
Smoking.
Skin from a pack of Marlboro lights. Naked and sweet sherry blushed.
Arif knocks hard on Johnston's red door. Teary eyed and neon ice blue.
Come inside, we'll warm you up. Although Raffles prefers Vindaloo.
Bells fall silent at last for a denouement. Terry and Julie have a plane to catch.
They've just set the bleeding hallway ablaze. History books to a red stoking match.
And 37 rattles in the corner. 38 holds a glass to the wall. 39 steps out for a new England. And at number 40, I'm recording it all.
The

Island.
Ireland.
Ireland.
Ireland.





England.
© BF-WATCH TV 2021