New Moon…
(My new poem inspired by Peter Brook’s painting…)
Two streams of chimney smoke reach for the new moon, as if in praise
Of the end-bracket of white light which scars the evening sky
In a quiet Yorkshire street, otherwise silent and unlit…
A memorial, or maybe a wayside preaching cross, stands uncomfortably near the Sun Inn,
Ironically beneath the strip of moon, as four fresh men shiver, hands in
Pockets, in the deserted neighbourhood, except for the dog, which will sit
And gawp, as the drinkers will gossip, doubtless smoke and sigh
About the times, bemoan their struggles and then to each other a frothing beer raise…
Pete Ray…
6th March 2026…
‘Fresh’ is a Yorkshire term for tipsy…
Love the dog’s expression…
Another Peter Brook commentary upon Yorkshire life from the recent past…
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