Grimbeau

Fed and quartered on beds edge.

The cold sun sinks, limp shadow

wraiths strewn screeds, scatty notes,

forgotten glimpses of time pledged

dreaming word dreams, now merely

ungainly ugly doodles.

Weak, sloppy, turgid, grey

premises of yarns & plays.

No, just throw them all away,

The black bin bag is waiting:

You only have to turn around.

‘Snow is not thick on the ground’

Hopeless weatherwomen say

When nobody is watching.