there’s a pastoralcrisis behind the oldblackbull / to the
left of the rustingtroughs ablaze with daffs / to
the right of scaffboardplanters and the head
ache of chipfat / with a hawthorn back drop to a
starlingdrama / the clatteringshed and haynes manual diarama / the missing stork up the tele
pole / a lack of superfastupdates for outreached climategoals / to the front the cuckoospit and the
roastingday / a weatheredfence punts two shirts / one denim / sleeveless / oilynicked with some
duffeighties metalpatch / one jermyn street / all pinstripepink and cuffed the colour of
ducklinghatch / bellows of incomers fan the
sterlingkindling of nouveaubatch / there’s gags of
landworkers / v / air bandb upstarts / there’s
scrumpypint bets / prescratched / going
cheekandjowl with the rosetattoos for this
decider / a late and baresummer knuckle match
on a chipolata for 10 / we quiz on the
panel / we squeeze in the
phonein / we salt up the flannel
we arrange the condiments to
keep onside as / we spy on the
stationcaff floor / a left luggage label
no / it's not yours
unpackaged in the
slyproject / the human face of
animal byproduct / tested up in tubes and
but we ain't met saintpeter yet / we're all
flag in the fall / the presenter wets up with
the price is right / and the choice is yours
or no source
For Archie, a poem
There’s a nudging curmudgeonly family favourite with a
cocoa nose, who’s scratched his last, alas.
There’s a king crossed with Westie, springing his
ears to grinding gears in the Islington breeze, in a
cavalier cat chase, always with permission please.
There’s a polite and linguistic savvy Cavvy, a
tennis ball detectorist, with pride of lion style, all
clipper shy and nose-rub altruistic.
There’s a biscuit, in many a secret stash, for those
big old eyes wide, even when ailing, never failing to
prod your affectionate side.
There’s a Cavestie, a hat hater, a protective
dogternal circler of celestial mind, with a
jobsworth badge on his fluffed-up flank, in a
parade of snorefest days, ever-under the impression
that there’s leftovers, always.
There’s a scaredy lad, a workshop snuffler,
on one, for an opportunity, a sawdust sneeze, to
persue some glue-based rapture. There’s a belter, a
heart-melter, perenially photogenic for the capture.
There's a bin-man wannabe, on a channel-hop for
doggy tv, a carrot loving rival to bugs bunny’s plot,
that couldn’t stick for one second that
one of us, he was not.
There’s an island tripping, wet sand skipping
enthusiast for the humankind but to his own, lifted a
nose or a cocked a hind, running in from the
outfield to soundly sleep with those in Sundial time.
There’s a daft old sod, that’s always been, from the
days of Squid’s guiding eye, that has always
invested and bested, however great, or
small our expectations were hidden or aligned.
There’s a mate, an ever-present, from ankle-biter to
sweeper-up smiter, with a bark worse than fighter, a
pure teddy bear, wrong righter, loving listener, a
grumping mini mooching mensch, a
couthy pooch and companion without compare.
Who was, and always will be,
forever just right there.