No Strange Fruit
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
Grimbeau 