Not catching up on Catch-Up,

resisting Sky Box Sets, 

antique DVDs, mostly staying  

away from BBC news, no booze, 

much better fed than Three Years BC, 

bang up to date times ten with

Game of Thrones & Walking Dead,

resisting still the fads of centuries 

ago like Bitcoin, Kindle, Breaking Bad.

I walk the village length front door 

to cemetery over dry ford,

pass vast, grazing rabbit herds,

photograph new metaphors,

hale neighbours over snooker 

table lawns, through hedges 

trimmed far past the quick, 

past driveways rammed with cars, 

see more folk in an hour

than I used to do all month,

the old ones sometimes waiting 

for a bus that only 

ever comes last week.

The epochs are suspended,

all long journeys done & dusted off 

the boots which walked too far

before I press the button that’ll 

take me from the Holocene

to Netflix where the wild things really are.

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