( ? )

the twelve days of summer

…

twelve flymos droning

eleven bullocks chasing

ten tarquins blocking roads

nine wankers glamping

eight cornettos melting

seven welly wangers

six gingers burning

five wasp stings

four bursting bangers

three love bites

two farmer’s wives

& a cuckoo in a peach tree

…

( author notes )

we wish you a merry summer
we wish you a merry summer
we wish you a merry summer
& a happy new autumn
– ho, ho, ho

…

tisnart ni

…

the wheels on the bus

of the rail replacement service

      go round & round – when

      the unions put their foot down

until the traffic lights

turn blue for a change

      as that cosmic trickster

      is a constant spanner

as the sails on the boats

waiting for the isobars

      to clash like a martian

      in a red spacesuit

in between gusts

settle like the dust

      onto the cobwebs

      inside your nan’s knickers

so the wings of the planes

of origami airlines

      fly like a crane

      or a scrumpled ball of paper

into the recycling bin

of back to the drawing board

      until that effing drawing board

      is reinvented

…

miss ing

…

~
she went on a walk
for a country mile or two
on a wet tuesday in april
~
while pigeons shat
on the mayor’s car parked
outside the town hall ( in town )
~
& laundry maids
sang old, raunchy ballads
about the price of bread – & thereabouts
~
off she upped & went
with a knapsack packed
with lucozade & tracker bars
~
most polar bears
have never seen a ghost
& not all birds can sing
~
a piece of string
is the distance of its span
– no one’s spotted her since

…

august or bust

…

august or bust
the mugwart is calling

hello from the hedgerows
the blackberries beckon

a jigsaw above us
in herringbone pieces

the stone in your trainers
is fit for a peach

the morn’ is a muddle
the even’ tiptoes

the nettles still sting though
– yes, it’s one o’ those

so august or bust
octavian’s ghost

is prodding with twigs
& canes from the bean frame

…

yet change rearranged

…

the ducks fed me

      regurgitated breadcrumbs

& green duckweed

      scooped with their beaks

from the bottom of the derwent

      which flowed to bleaklow moor

north from the trent

      as a toddler mauled a staffie

their parents used to say

      it’s nurture not nature

in the park again

      yet change rearranged

so old biddies gathered

     high on aspartame

vaping & littering

      if their grandkids found out

they’d no doubt – be ashamed

      & blame the internet

leaves fell upwards

      from the ground to the trees

not one cottager

     stuffed inside the cubicles

of the gents bog

      which flushed like a dream

cyclists remembered

      what their bells were for

the ice cream van

     sold hot mister whippies

the moon shined bright – come noon

      & all the tossers jogging

watched where they were going

      & never hogged the path

…