In the deep midwinter
I’m staying in my bed.
Bugger building snowmen,
I’m keeping warm instead.

Alright, there isn’t any snow
and I said that for effect,
but it’s cold enough to get
brass monkey’s future wrecked.

They say we ought to exercise
because we’re overweight.
I say eat and put on fat,
then go and hibernate.

All this constant movement
won’t get you mugs more healthy,
most of your activity
is making others wealthy.

So take a tip from bears and bats,
just find a cosy hole
and let those who do like the cold
go swimming round the Pole.

rs 10.1.19

There’s no moon

(for Jeremy Hardy)

The snow-capped roofs of cars is all that’s left
of last night’s fall that covered most the rest
of this complacent country. The moon is dark
in three days time and Jeremy is dead.

This is the month for such departures,
when temperatures descend
and bodies, weakened by disease,
decide they’ve reached the end.

He was a fighter who used words
and humour to stand out,
mocking all the fools who think
their power’s what it’s about.

Now he’s gone we’re weaker still,
but the war goes on
against the fear, the ignorance,
the greed that are so wrong.

A Russian sage once claimed that souls
migrated to the moon
after death to fertilise that place,
eventually making it another living room.

There’ve been so many dreams like that
in our long human race,
but we want peace and justice here
not somewhere out in space.

The moon will show its face again,
though that brave man will not,
but others will soon take his place
and he won’t be forgot.

rs 1.2.19