A poem by Rupert M Loydell
The geese are flying South
over the flooded creek
or have they flown South
to get here? I never know.
I recall Lizzie queue jumping
by invitation: the workmen
insisting that she go first;
and she did, flying over
for bacon and eggs, hash browns,
her first cup of tea that day.
If only escape was always easy,
offered to us, facilitated even.
Tonight, a different skein of geese
unravels in the sky, then regroups
and honks aloud, flies up the creek
off into the rain. It’s grey
again, low cloud or mist,
tide pushing towards the road
through the windswept trees.
In my book Peter Pan blusters
his way through endless childhood,
divides his time between London
and Neverland, his magic kingdom
and a top floor nursery room.
Above the park, beyond tall houses,
a blue and silver dusk. The Serpentine
mirrors the stars, the shadow of
this lonely boy in endless flight.