Jasper cops it

George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence

I watched thin lipped as a wasp

(call it the Duke of Clarence)

fights pluckily to escape

the wing-glue of flat cider.


It takes ages to perish.

When I return it keeps

going for a while, succumbing

at four-twenty-four pm.


Ninety come to the waking,

a good turnout, and chase me

back inside to the plague of

locusts and other various

small and quite big flying things.



My Lady of the Far West

New quay

Old quay







Upslope from strand

Hotel vanishes

Hotel reappears


Upstairs window sill

Flowerpot drops burst

Lady Look upward


A close scarlet shave



The train that never leaves the station runs offrails

Hypodermic nuns in camisoles and stilettos

Peeling potatoes follow the orders rules of

Disengagement. Maris Pipers of the wimple

Cistercian Stylites

Broad brush strokes the flaxen damsons,

It’s green stem phosphorescent.


We stalk the fruit croppers dressed up as deer, with kazoos.

We are all called Sherlock:

Counter intelligent

Counter intuitives.




Garden Table


Too bad heavy day, frown and sigh, we watch

Thick marmaladen flies circle

Pure white perfect dove’s egg nesting in sea

green potted purple heather lavender

surrounded by grubby pink, limp bloomers,

purple legs and arms like Matisse dancers.

A hoverfly, pauses for a butcher’s,

but soon Dakotas off to pastures other –

The wasp on the chocolate brown bacolite

radio had advised so over breakfast.

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