Wizz Air brings me back to the crawling lights of Little Britain,

a neck-jarring landing followed by bewildering ePassport control

ushers me home into this eccentric island with a poster for multi-cultural mead.

The clanking Siemens Thameslink train gets me in at dawn

and a discombobulated sleep deprived day,

but hey! I’m back on my manor and I feel the need

soaking up the seeds like a potato planted in rich loam.

I’m home, and it’s as good as it gets

to be back among my neighbours and market stalls

and safe behind familiar walls.

Pottering about the streets in the rain I feel no pain

to be back on terra firma, in the pub with friendly faces

I measure out my paces like a poker player with a good hand.

Their luck may have abandoned them but they still enjoy the buzz

of a pint amongst like-minded folk and a smoke in the break

between bad losses, but who gives a toss when the stake is just ten pounds;

it costs more than that for a round, so gambling’s a cheap night out

and about on the town like a disordered clown with a balloon 

which pops too soon while showing off to the tourists in the piazza

for the silver and gold from seven continents.

Taking the train to St. Paul’s for a walk across the wobbling bridge

to that confection created cathedral of the senses

in the past and present tenses and an exhibition of Surrealism

from around the world, which amuses and delights

with associations of the night; on the river terrace we take coffee

then home along the South Bank, in full throttle for the Jubilee

creativity is being free, while Ukraine battles for its life

our strife is among the dysfunctional members of this island family

for minnow sovereignty on the internet of things and places

in a post-Freudian society where no one keeps mum.