Let me be your Trilby, you can be my Head.
Let me be your reader, you can be my read.
Walsingham, Cromwell, Karla, and McBride
Spied, entrapped, intimidated, lied
For a living.
Peeping out the back door
Omnipuzzled by sleep, back from the faeries
Of Morpheus, a windgust insists retreat.
This season it rarely does gentle persuasion.
‘You who dance the light fantastic
Are likely for the collapse drastic’
Who said that? I see no talking mammals.
Ah yes! Last night a chatty Bactrian camel
Detained me most welcome between mares.
Another cold steel wind stabs me at the front door
That’s what erstwhile friends are for.