birthday cake beacons

christingle lanterns

waxen dinner lights

lit wick christenings

brightening the night

flaming moth magnets

drippy torches or

plasma dance floors

…

…

pouches of air
where we keep our keys

in the land of jangles
as we plod along songs

almost tambourines
rhythm in our jeans

sewn on three sides
stitched up like a kipper

folded like space-time
a universe within – with

a scrumpled notebook
perhaps a snotty tissue

a fifty p piece
with the dead queen’s head

a leaky fountain pen
– polo mints for ponies

& friendly rocking horses
the ones that don’t bite

or our hands when nippy
( poor man’s gloves )

shudder on our way
charting parts unknown

in our tool cagoules
& our wanker anoraks

…

after all the conkers fell

in the dingles of the dell

then the squirrels ran away

snuggled up within their drey

see the branches bearing all

like a painter strips a wall

while the sunken sun is bright

in between the frozen night’s

frosted fingers frisking us

in the absence of a buzz

from a single bumblebee

or a butterfly t’see

autumn’s glory left alone

crackles on the telephone

winter calling – there’s the twat

grab some gloves ‘n’ wear a hat

…