Not just gherkins / Surviving a cyberattack

The room without signal

is a dead zone.

Nothing to watch, nothing to say.

Only the ratchet of a wind-up radio

and those deep breaths of gale

rising, falling.

                     Outside.

                     Afternoon blurs the window pane,

                     trickles down the gutter.

Is the fitful rattle of my doorlatch

a shadow trying to break in?

 

Upstairs, among the hunting trophies

and sporting memorabilia,

the family practise tariff-free resilience.

Inspect their stockpile:

                                  couscous 

                                  cocoa powder

                                  plantains

                                  quinoa

                                  chocolate-coated waffles

                                  tinned jackfruit

                                  throat pastilles

                                  liquorice extract

                                  edible animal fats.

They wonder whether citrus jam should be called marmalade,

and wait for the football results.

I’ll write to them later this week.

 

xi. 2026

hardened field defence

 

Across this patchwork baking,

like over-ironed brownshirts, to a dustbowl  

look on our clouded hills:

rain is coming.

 

As gathering shadow unfolds

take refuge while you can.

 

A derelict pillbox will serve.

In the lock stock stillness

of concrete slab set in pasture

we hide inside.

 

Refuse to betray our position,

ready for the deluge.

 

Four embrasure slits to watch from:

no-one may advance unseen

not east, not west, not north, not south.

Outside these shell-proof walls

wind is rising.

 

Night falls upon little England.

 

 ix. 2026

 

There is a place I go

along a country lane    

where the bridge is weak, its guardrail rotten.

But short-term girders, long left permanent,

are strong enough – until they’re not.

 

Beneath, the river (what remains of it)

washes shallow

over a fallen arch of bricks.

An echo of rain held in its ripples.

 

Beyond, above the makeshift weir,

crayfish dwell in a chilly pond.

Swim if you want, or watch

how water flows through gaps like sheets of glass.

 

No need to list what has got worse –

days are where we live them.

Immerse yourself, look up, see swallows sail

three-sixty baby blue degrees.

viii. 2026

·        days are where we live – from Days, Philip Larkin