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Rich Hues Mar 15
"It's called terracotta”  Professor ‘igginz said,
‘Coz ‘e’s one of ‘em with big words in iz ‘ead
And we're in Tuscony on a cultural trip…
(Where they paint the buildings the colour of brick)
…To look at pictures and culture and stuff,
But after an ‘our
I've ‘ad enough,
‘Coz it's all great big churchez and great big tombz
And great big museumz with too many roomz.


And then I see this bloke looking at me
And ‘ere's me thinking “Who can ‘e be?”
‘Coz ‘e's tall and ‘andsome, (I'm short but not fat)
And ‘e’s stood on a plinth with wingz on ‘iz ‘at. 


And ‘e's got this lovely face
And a nice straight nose,
But mostly I'm thinking
‘E's not wearing clothes.
And ‘e's got beautiful calves
Below gorgeous thighs
And everything's… You know…
Just the right size.


Then down ‘e drops, 
That ‘at gets a tip,
A nice little bow,
Them ‘eels givz a click.
And he makes me laugh
‘Coz ‘e's a posh sort of chap,
And ‘e torcs like this
While I talkz like tha’.


So I asks him - you know -   If he'll show me round, 
Then he pickz me up right off the ground!
And out of the Uffizi and up into the sky
And like buzzard wiv a bunny
Off we fly...
To this great big church
With a great big dome
And we land on the roof
Which ‘e sez
Iz ‘iz ‘ome.


And we sit there just chatting looking down at the crowds,
Then we lie back and paint faces on clouds,
And we watch the sun sinking like a great big ball,
And then just lie there saying nothing at all,
Til ‘e he turnz and whispers as the sky runs to black
And next thing I've got me legs round ‘iz back.


‘Coz ‘e's proper ‘andsome
With nice airs and graces
What  ‘igginz would call
“Prosopopoeia ekphrasis”.
Rich Hues Mar 2021
Palms cup
Mother-of-pearl
To the ***** laugh
Of a clean-limbed girl
Whose teeth are white
And lips as fresh
As lemon squeezed
On living flesh
Beneath a salmon sky
As the tide slides out
And as we wash them down
With velvet stout.
Rich Hues Mar 2021
That broken gait,                
That croo-
       Ked spine,
The insanity
We seek in rhyme
Is no poetic quest,                
          No Holy Grail
But a Quasimodic
               Fairy tale
And freedom from                     
The *******'s curse:
The ugly form
That is...
Blank verse.
A ditty about the dotty.
Rich Hues Dec 2020
A winter walk
In winter time,
Your fingers weave
And wind with mine,
A den of thieves,
As our hearts float,
In the pocket
Of my duffle
Coat.
Rich Hues Dec 2020
In a sea of scent
Beyond the reach
Of silver birch
And hornbeam beech,
Beneath a ragged patch
Of deep blue sky,
Adrift on a blanket
You and I.
Rich Hues Nov 2020
A Penthouse in the attic
And a boy in his teens,
Head bowed below rafters
And in unbuttoned jeans.
It's a dogeared edition,
Some twenty years old,
In which his mother,
Spreadeagle,
Is the centrefold.
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