…
morris men bailing out
parachutes & landing on
yesteryear’s merriments
enter the fayre
as their sunk plane explodes
with an orange plop
into the west’s horizon
so the foxgloves are off
let the bells knell then
let the barely legal
maidens weave
ribbons ’round a randy tree
let the ale keep it real
if the piss’eads insist
albion, the coffin dodger
is seventeen again
so this green & pheasant gland
de vere’s sceptred isle
mister blake’s jerusalem
is wistful like wisteria
while clematis climbs
like the ghostly smoke from
great auntie beltane’s
bonfire – the bardish
burks compose their verse
on greasy white chip paper
necking lukewarm cans of
dandelion & burdock
let anew resume
& a cuckoo calm us all
…
