Hearty shambles

Two white beam trees sway in tandem. 
There’s a church like a stone cloud. 
The man with a horn stands there splashed 
against the flintstones preaching the good word, 
with an oily sax-o-phone lashing the sunlight. 
Sparrows squabble with leaves and bugs.  
A boy crumbles through a pork pie.  
He said his head was free of weeds 
like a flushed gutter on a shit street mini mart. 
 
Two white beam trees bowing under the weight 
of Spring-thrilled air, yapping on the roots, 
on the mycelian, about the healing peal  
of a Dixieland band ‘quivering down the trunk.’  
It makes the white leaves green and the green leaves 
white then green again all the way to 5pm. 
 
Two whitebeam trees lazily be in canopy splutters. 
There’s a curtain of rotting air which rose from 
the richly abused acres beyond a car park ruin, 
scooping up the misapprehensions of the Nandos crowd; 
creaming off the horror of a contemptuously-designed library 
and landing invisibly above us, simul—tan—eous
with a clash of branches on church clock enamel:  
Two hands rattled to the ground. 
 
Two white beam trees now sick and thirsty. 
O’Neill’s terrace resembles a ship of golden ale 
and through the arch in the churchyard the horn player 
disappears into a chamber of contrived wilderness, 
turning his life to sniff and sneeze. Pre—apoca——lyp——tic 
is the grief he snorts out in the green amenity 
and two white beams flop as broken umbrellas.