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.
New quay
Old quay
Khaki
Shorts:
Turn-ups
Sometimes
Happen.
Upslope from strand
Hotel vanishes
Hotel reappears
Upstairs window sill
Flowerpot drops burst
Lady Look upward
A close scarlet shave
Mystery…Suspense.
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.
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.
Grimbeau 