The all new "Where are you today?" thread

[Nick]

Ashby de la Zouch castle 

[Barman]

Ashby de la Zouch castle 

 

[Barman]

All done... time for a G & T...

[Nick]

Back   Did a side trip to Breedon on the Hill. Tomorrow: Barton in Fabis (roman settlement)

Now it's     

[Barman]

Back   Did a side trip to Breedon on the Hill. Tomorrow: Barton in Fabis (roman settlement)

Now it's     

 

[apc2010]

Researching extended warranty quotes.  Mercedes just gave me the official quote for mine
 
 
 
 
sit down everyone
 
 
 
especially Apey
 
 
 
 
£2750 for two years 

 

That is 5 cars ....   and what AMG ...

[Steve]

Researching extended warranty quotes.  Mercedes just gave me the official quote for mine
 
 
 
 
sit down everyone
 
 
 
especially Apey
 
 
 
 
£2750 for two years 

 

That is 5 cars ....   and what AMG ...

My AMG     will PM

[apc2010]

Back in lockdown.........   curfew ..8pm ..so BM ok ..

[Nick]

Miss I loving Simon's new poem 

https://www.centralfifetimes.com/news/national-news/18862849.simon-armitages-poem-commemorates-unknown-warrior/

[Just One More]

Miss I loving Simon's new poem 

https://www.centralfifetimes.com/news/national-news/18862849.simon-armitages-poem-commemorates-unknown-warrior/

Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.

And because you are broken and sleeping rough

in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross

for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;

to hack through the knotted dark of the next world,

yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate

looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds.

That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,

fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.

And because frost plucks at the threads

of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain,

bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed

and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,

for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,

and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:

an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.

The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble

buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket

a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness

files past, through until morning, its head bowed.

Molten bullets embroider incised words.

Among drowsing poets and dozing saints

the tall white candles are vigilant sentries

presenting arms with stiff yellow flames;

so nobody treads on the counterpane,

but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers

will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.

All this for a soul

without name or rank or age or home, because you

are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.

Ditto what Barman's gonna say 

[Steve]

IMHO it was verbose filler until the last 9 lines which are rather good

[Nick]

Palestine 

[apc2010]

Miss I loving Simon's new poem 

https://www.centralfifetimes.com/news/national-news/18862849.simon-armitages-poem-commemorates-unknown-warrior/

Read porn ....


Gutted ...

[Barman]

Miss I loving Simon's new poem 

https://www.centralfifetimes.com/news/national-news/18862849.simon-armitages-poem-commemorates-unknown-warrior/

Read porn ....


Gutted ...

 

[Barman]

Miss I loving Simon's new poem 

https://www.centralfifetimes.com/news/national-news/18862849.simon-armitages-poem-commemorates-unknown-warrior/

Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.

And because you are broken and sleeping rough

in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross

for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;

to hack through the knotted dark of the next world,

yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate

looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds.

That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,

fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.

And because frost plucks at the threads

of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain,

bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed

and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,

for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,

and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:

an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.

The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble

buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket

a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness

files past, through until morning, its head bowed.

Molten bullets embroider incised words.

Among drowsing poets and dozing saints

the tall white candles are vigilant sentries

presenting arms with stiff yellow flames;

so nobody treads on the counterpane,

but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers

will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.

All this for a soul

without name or rank or age or home, because you

are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.

Ditto what Barman's gonna say 

"What is this shite?"