The Secret Lives of Chimney Pots I

Cluttering above huddled rooftops Of sprawling villages And shy provincial towns; Rising sharply amidst swooping Declinations; Hesitating when gathering at the Tangled woodland perimeters of Outlying greenland bounds, Jostled apex ridges detach among Themselves... When habitually roused from early Mornings Newly awakened sounds. Electrical milk floats whir and Bustle around manna-strewn, Cherry-blossomed streets; Clinking bottles in blue Plastic crates Rattle in monotonous unison, as, Disregarded, The humming buggy clatters and Creeps - Like the lead flashing that skirts The Stacks, Where, benched atops - Resides the secretive brooding Lives of chimney tops! Seated and sullen like sombre Jurors In considered repose; Terraced like football fans; Smugly ensconced above it all. Starring across, seemingly Endless, Crammed-in red brick rows; Squatting idly alongside Deserted pavements Braced by the grey concrete kerbs - That race the patched-up black Tarmac roads. Suddenly! The intrusive whistling Of the jocund paperboy breaks upon Your shattered window glass; The young scoundrel never takes The welcoming path, trekking Instead - Over your lovingly nurtured And well manicured front lawn Grass! Like the old shaded Tom he Stealthily steals... When bringing the freshly printed Reams of bad and despondent news: Heralded within many labored Rotations Of his furiously peddled wheels. For so it is that every working Day The greater majority rub the Gritty sand from out of their Heavy and weary eyes; Then, when complying to the Insistence of the agitated alarm, Stretch out, yawn, and, like Orderly troops, Obediently rise. The backbone of your economies... Or so we have heard it said: The unmentioned un-redoubtables: Discriminated against, heavily Taxed - And constantly bled! Slowly but slowly harmonic dawns Sweet, liquid chorus Abates and lapses... Replaced by the twittering beaks Of the many varied and Vociferous chirping classes. The smartly booted and suited Early-riser Steps out when steadfast front Doors purposefully open, Then, with a backward glance, And mindful that not a sleeping Soul should be woken, Making sure doors are carefully Clicked shut, Striding briskly away - making Good his precious time upon foot. Warming engines, reassuringly Ticking over, Begin to reverse down crunching Washed-gravel drives. Hollow avenues reverberate and Echo; Whilst all the while, as The mocking incline contrives, The keep fitter and jogger, Teeth gritted grimly in pursuit Of predetermined style, Stoutly resolved, strive to Complete The last gut-wrenching mile.