by grimbeau





—Burnt out, or so you say. All burned out. Dried up, but like what—wadi or toast, candle or storm? Where there’s life…where there’s life. That’s what they always say
—Toast it is then: crusty brown wholemeal toast burnt black, iffy thermostat…
—Not bad, not bad at all
—No heart & soul mind you
—Husky, though, even a little dusky (ha-ha)
—Coffee brown roasted funnel dregs
—Still damp!
—Left out when the sun was at it’s…
—Wow…that is real burnt!

The plague years, they said, burn themselves out.
A peculiar variety of auto da fe
It would seem to have been
Quite Divinely ordained.
Fire starter & hosepipe; belle, bookie, & candelabra!
Have they been moving that furniture around again?
Yes. They never stop it.
so much so sunshine & showers
seldom clash these days.
So well do they behave themselves.
And clouds no longer burst.
Not since many a long year.
Dry as salvages we are:
Mesos, stackpoles, arid drumlins…
Lithographs remain,
mere shadowplays, traced on pre stressed concrete,
splashes on toppled sarsens, drizzle on banished dolmen…
sure it’s better than nothing, anything’s better than:
‘That’s what they always say’