Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

In my weekend world I am a king -
my children mostly listen; I help
them build dams, and dream of replanting
wild meadows by the old church path.
I watch the wings of hoverflies,
tell tales of foxgloves to my boy -
strange stuff about cunning prizefighters
and their battles with the chainsaw clans.

Nothing like my daily news here in the City:
the tallest buildings are banks, not spires:
the language an d the light is altogether different.
So it seems to be: destroy the trees reading
daily fear I soon forget; sell the shining things
I hate to see spoiling the view in our leafy lanes;
it’s all back to front, but I need my children
to see the salmon, the voles I remember -
if I could somehow carry the willows
into the open-plan jungle upstairs
and lecture on the aerodynamics of bees...

Even where I live we rarely talk;
people move here for privacy,
and the only shops now are in town.
At work we laugh, but only
about certain things: so much is taboo.
Even in between times, on the trains,
you’ll rarely get real talk,
not at commuting time anyhow.

I admit, it’s the children I live for.
They mostly listen, they have an eye
and an ear for the quieter things.
In my dreams they live better lives -
weekends a way of life, everybody talking
so we all know what needs to be done;
and everywhere wild meadows,
with enough space to sit down alone
and feel no shame
listening to the light on the reeds
and the stream telling
its old and trusted story.