Perhaps the radio can see
who the ocean has reclaimed
this gusty Sunday
Less a numbers game
than prurient derision
Smug as a bug on a drug
Neon hordes festoon seasides
Find macabre pokemon
Washed up after sated fish
Gold, silver and bronzed
Load up on food for thought
Leftovers after feeding frenzies
Fake it as it comes
Feel no love for humankind
Only mild revulsion
Jockeying for possession
Each cherished savoury thought
generates breathless excitement
waiting in orderly queue
having ordered ghost fish
envisioned perched atop
plentiful fulsome ghost chips
complimentary mushy peas
salt & vinegar lashings
down the Deep Sea takeaway
every Tuesday night
as they have their lunch
The Prisoner of Haiku
makes it through the wall…
I cook some
runner beans
and
put the fish
pie in
the top oven.
Thirty minutes at 180c.
Meantime She arrives.
I ate and now I sweat.
The pie was
impressive,
the beans too populous.
Soon I will shower.
The afternoon is
oppressive.
Thundery,
heavy air.
It is three seventeen.
The dog barks.
There was something.
What was it?
The pepper,
the potatoes…
and something else.
French beans:
Harry Covert’s.
Speckled with blackfly.
A portent of tempest.
Grimbeau 