A poem by Stuart A. Paterson
Support independent, non-corporate media.
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.