HATS OFF to LOndon

WSJ image

When realities pour down,
When plans for summer drown,
I just spill my little jar of
'Summer's Comin'.


A cudgel of the shells
Ina Moser saved from hell;
Once Upon A Thursday she'd come
Knocking.

Now I keep them out all year
Where they harken her day's fear,
When those G.I.'s beat back daily
Foggy gloom.

No one asks, but I would tell
What her Donald did in hell,

Beating steel into those
Ships and turrets tall,

So that men and boys could die
In a land where Brits held high
The last vestige of a hope in
Summer's dream.

Now we glean what all we can
From mere memories that stand
For ideas that once loomed large
But trampled now.

Maybe London had to rain,
Had to bend so we could gain
A better grip upon the bludgeon
They held high,

Reminded now, of then,
When a foe was put to death
By the hell-hatched pray-ers
Timeless on their knees.

You just finger turn each one

With a prayer for sun to open

All the promises of someday

Sand and surf.

Then you pour out cups of Teafull
Chats recalling with the faithful,
Whisps of hope half cheered from fearful
God-breathed times

When rain produced a sorrow, and
Downturned smiles press'd out dour
Need borne pleas;
Sustain your minute, then your hour.

So tonight, we'll tip the pot
Pressed on couches that we got
From a butcher (whose old
Cumbrian remains

Won't be sipping tea; no.
Spirits much more of the highHO.)
And we'll cheer the Stars n'
Stripes and Union Jack.

Sipping, Tippling, Praying, Staying,
Wanting only for the baying
Hounds of heaven to just hurry up
Already.

Can we gain some kind of poke

And triumph o'er the joke

That are Ameri-weak an' holl'd

Centurians?

You just finger turn each one

With a prayer for Sunday's comin'

And full promises of someday

Bold Relief.