Back from the city, coppice gate to ride,
I muse on life ill spent, more fortune than
design, the early evening of this year’s
midnight, a breviary to wasted time.
This sky’s the brushwork of a fallen star,
red shifted might-have-beens, a running sore
despondent with hindsight - and portents too,
the wounded herald, battles, wrongs to right.
Big picture bleared, betrayed by those supposed
to fight their corner on Damascus Road,
dismayed, they’re bloody-minded, foxes out
to beat the hunting ban, apostasy,
side with the enemy, M way to self-
destruct, vote Brexit, sound the final Trump.
Peter Branson, a native of N. Staffordshire, has lived in a village in Cheshire, UK, for the last twenty-six years. A former teacher and lecturer in English Literature and creative writing and poetry tutor, he is now a full time poet, songwriter and traditional-style singer whose poetry has been published by journals in Britain, the USA, Canada, Ireland, Australasia and South Africa, including Acumen, Agenda, Ambit, Anon, Envoi, The London Magazine, The North, Prole, The Warwick Review, Iota, The Butcher’s Dog, The Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter’s House, SOUTH, Crannog, THE SHOp, Causeway, Columbia Review, Main Street Rag and Other Poetry. He has won prizes and been placed in a number of poetry competitions over recent years, including a ‘highly commended’ in the ‘Petra Kenny International’, first prizes in the ‘Grace Dieu’ and the ‘Envoi International’, a special commendation in the Wigtown and silver medal award in the Desmond Healy, 2016. His last book, ‘Red Hill, came out in 2013. His latest collection, ‘Hawk Rising’, from ‘Lapwing’, Belfast, was published in early April 2016.