Back again at just gone ten
after a power breakfast
with Mr Clay, Ms Self, and the Demi-urge.
A frozen garden, a propped
up green wheelbarrow glued
to an icy rotary clothes line.
Frost suspends decay of jungle beanplants.
What else did you see?
Or hear? Or taste? Or touch? Or smell?
Fields in collision, tectonic plates lying shattered,
or just another trad night down the Greeks.
So thought Inspector Spangle, flicking through
the photos from scenes of crime:
no time, no space, just action
invisible, eternal delight,
energy in a bun dance.
What could be less clear than that?
Yea, housing, phone calls, Victoria Derbyshire…
I know, I know, I know. Stop nagging me!
It’s all work in progress.