A Line of Morgans

J.G. Morgan & Son, Family Butcher, Est. 1935

The first recorded Moggs was nineteen in 1930.

There was chapel then, it was a time of innocence,

and none more innocent than Elsie Dyer,

that Sunday walk from the chapel to the Parade,

full of the holy spirit,

the next Moggs born in 1931.

That post-war Moggs grew up with swing and jazz.

They’d all learned a lot from the Americans.

Good bopping to be had, in ’52.

The 70s Moggs was right-on sex pistol,

a ten-minute punk, then the family shop.

Played football with his hair in a pony-tail.

Married to the Mayor’s daughter at thirty-two. 

The 21^st century Moggs

is a tidier boy altogether.

Goes to odd night clubs, the boxing club,

does social media. Saves.

(A holiday in Vegas in mind.)

But with the customers, the lady customers,

a charmer, a real charmer.

To the Countryside: City Girl

Street-sure, she prowled

the popcorn end of the city’s joy-ride,

messed and meddled in arcades,

giggled at the 18 Certificate stuff.

She’s working in a village dairy now.

In the city, milk clanked from dispensers,

maybe bubbled with strawberry in shakes.

Here, she’d have been tugging udders once,

pink flopping funny things

she’s squinted at inside the parlour.

But much of her day is filling crates

(an urban thing enough)

and writing customer accounts.

And they’re kind to her here.

Evenings, April, May, walking home,

she sees the crows lift from fields and trees,

wonders at the heartbreak, heartsongs

of all that breeds around her.