The furrows are drying
in a woodlouse summer.
Each quiet year proves
they were inexpertly dug.
Empty eye sockets
the flowerbeds shrivel
and each tulip bulb is just
a useless *******.
Earthworks crumble into riverbanks,
the defective rock
dances bed-ward.
The clay browns the water.
In the dusty corridors of sunlight
we are the balled up
little hedgehog
late for the earthworm
and the screen-saver, bouncing
but never touching the corner.
I’ve sat dumb and still as
words dwindle on a screen.
Somewhere else hands delve
into crowns of sticky, soaked poppy.
Wet and soft they stink
of sugar.
Liberated calves with
liberated hoofs gambol in mud
and rough tongues
curl on apple picking fingers.
Slugs glisten
With fairy-tale arrogance.
Happy and fat in a giant’s
vegetable patch.
Somewhere else the smell of low-tide
isn’t a crusting of salt,
seagulls, ******* and
a reminder of torpid shallows
but profound ovulation.
Nesting puffins, shearwaters,
an ocean view cottage.
Shepard’s peachy sky.
Summer is willing. Keep calm.
Count her freckles.
I’ve walked through the forest
seen hearts in trees.
Bark grows, gold stars roll
and the guileless acolyte,
not hungry but dry
bends over a keyboard
and counts an orchard’s
wealth in slushy apples.
Mud and sand on the carpet.
Eyes sticky and red. Not black.
