Covid-19

Compass Theatre, Ickenham have socially distanced classes, comedy nights in the gardens and theatre workshops planned for the summer holidays. The Sep-Dec 2021 season at Compass is growing but Winston Churchill Theatre in Ruislip will continue to serve as a vaccination site until further notice.

Tickets : 01895 250615 | boxoffice@hgfl.org.uk
Venue Hire: 01895 277643 | artsvenues@hillingdon.gov.uk

Poet Tim

 

RAF Northolt Fire Escape

A way up the stream we discover fire gates,
open grass beyond, mossy concrete bridge,
and a dubious notice, warning that
jeeps might crash through at any time

into the weed-stricken gravelway,
revving top brass westward from a fireballing drone,
or convoy the children of soldiers
out from under a warhead.

It wouldn’t be a drill.

But now it stands abandoned, meaningless,
hedgebound, untouched by tyres,
forgotten by the minister,
visited sporadically by sun and walkers, while

those uniform people, mysterious to us over the fences,
let it dilapidate, play football, do washing
and put away, with the kids’ pyjamas in the airing cupboard,
the thought of taking them out into that cliff edge night.

by Tim

RAF Northolt Fire Exit

 

On the Grand Union Canal, passing by the Nestlé Factory in Hayes, Middlesex

where, if a silo overturned, replaced the water in the canal
with custard, or rice pudding,

my boat would leave
a longer impression

than it does now while stalking this swan
under two grey carriageways,

getting by a town you once
knew, that once threw

mother’s milk and milky bars
into your sandal and sock

past. Your ghost peering over a rail,
on the bank, lusty for the scent

of trifle, would watch as I,
your future, splattered by,

or else if this were the surface
of a record from the Vinyl Factory,

my boat cutting a groove,
that repeated turning recalls

perfectly every time,
then I would be more than

a temporary dent in your mind
but our brains are just

a setting concoction of carnation milk,
banana shake powder, perturbed by electric,

so from each moment you capture my likeness,
cleavings get unmade, information rewritten, and...

on the canal, there’s a swirl, like coffee
being stirred and my moving weight is

gone, the surface sane again,
just a few bubbles, a little settling silt.

By Tim

Video Story

Video through Hillingdon on the Grand Union Canal

 

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