Save that, Patroclus!
It’s
Midday plus
five.
Hazy Sunday afternoon.
Luncheon?
Fishcakes & ptarmigan droppings.
Not again,
Pen
What happened to the marmoset wellington?
The Ogres, I suppose.
Eyes bigger than their stomachs, those lads.
Gluttons with mutton.
Ask Old Shep.
Boiled eggs,
two soft boiled eggs,
four minutes sortie,
give or take a few spoonrides
for immersion and rescue –
tense moments, critical mass.
Two slices of toasted oatmeal brown:
four buttered diagonals, obtuse triangles,
bread hats for bald coolies in monsoon, torn
to shreds by bare hands for dipping soldiers
and to perform mopping up ops in egg, salt and pepper theatre.
The year is shaping,
form finds content in
mulch and gunge,
from primal gloop comes novelty
Everything assumes a name:
Rose, Spud, and Daisy to name but three.
And this year’s offspring: Prim, Tatty, and Iris.
Pleasant thoughts to have for sure.
Looking forward to plenty more.
Signs of hope…
Bang!
I kid you not.
The dog just barked.
Here’s the cops.
Grimbeau 