There he lay in the garden,
Spoked by spitted golden dandy heads,
and Drowned in the cream wash of snowdrops,
Where rivers of writhing milk bottle bodies,
Seeped from his mouth,
crawling along his swollen tongue.

In the May haze and towering pampas grass,
One could not be blamed,
For being unaware of what hid among the blades,
for even sometimes I forgot he lived there
and I mean; I’m the one who lay the calcium carbonate in his bones to rest.

Daisy melted crucible of ultra-violet cardinal,
Dashed between the monochrome of the hooded witnesses,
How they lurked and observed,
Perched mercifully upon twin braided branches,
Even the stream which glinted below,
Oozed and gasped in its abyssal darkness.

Alas though, those that witnessed, failed ever so gently;
to notice the muted symphony of the sunflower heads,
how its slithers of light crawled and poked,
emerging at the entrance for its performance of duality.

If after death there is nothing,
Do I play the devils hand?
Contemplate his infatuation,
Bury my head in alabaster sands,
Or hymn silver ached permutation,
And **** myself.

The swirls of heavy scented dew drops,
Danced and played, revering down the glass panes.
Echoing the emeralds, of etched ecstasy,
Flashed in blossoming British gardens.

It was early morning,
The newspaper yet to be delivered,
But late enough that the milk bottles stood, organised,
Shoulder to shoulder in a 2x2 formation of solidarity.

A blood orange tinge burned the sky,
Between the spital dashes of grey clouds,
the blackbird soared and sang,
and oh how it found sanctuary amongst the buckthorn brush