Talkin’ ‘bout a Revolution

There’s a fine boxwood hedge at the end of my street,

I pass it each day on my lockdown feet:

it’s dark green and dense, taller than me,

tight-clipped and bristly, a real thick-set tree.

Around six months ago, some stray passing yob

jammed an empty beer can (oh what a slob)

into this cable-knit bush at eye level height

and its half-crumpled silver keeps catching my sight.

For month after month I had cravenly ducked it,

but today with a gloved hand I finally plucked it:

this cold metal fruit of some original sin

was soon in the belly of a dog-shit bin.

We can transform our lives, of this there’s no doubt,

I’m a born-again seer, from the roof tops I’ll shout:

when pandemics cause lockdown and shortage of soap

we can lighten our darkness and re-kindle hope.

So watch me tomorrow as I stride down the road,

monotony behind me and sameness be blowed!

Into lockdown ennui I’ve driven a wedge –

there’s no fucking can in that fucking hedge!

Ted Eames, 2021

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