Grimbeau

Sat, consternate, on the rotting silver birch

stump bemoaning the lack of an exotic

mushroom yield

(it being over three years since it was inspored)

a rolling stramache, a riotous flurry

of poppies blew wanton from the coppice.

Red ones, white ones, black ones – this cloud consumed

my solemn rage. Then they came, arguing

in tongues. Poppy makers from far and wide.

The marketeers are always exercised

thus early November. Not these poxy mushrooms though:

bloody rip off if you ask me reader