We sat an’ didn’t like the sweetcorn,
nor the forks, the moon had no quarrel.

The sun had no bite with the wallpaper.
Black, Black the salted air drifted

The colour scented with the taste
of chip’s n’ vinegar

Of course this poem procures no great wonderment
nor does it produce any invoice that would bring heat,
to the mind of the reader, nor from the placement
of ink from the printer.

Of course it does produce itself from form
from form-ness of itself in itself
but brings no cure and no ills, it just is ‘being ‘

That course is never truer or less of a test
when there is no phenomena of its appearance,

Of Course it has none

Hum among the snowdrops
they rise with hope,
least they droop and frown.

The soil has nurtured and held.
Breaking for this hope,
that winter wanes now.

They cannot sing of the season
but do they not hope
of their own time?