Wednesday, February 15, 2012

on downland

It nedeth no coarse sea of heaven
to brist on sunder barres of light;
we can do it ourselves.

The rabbit charnel and "bone inspector"
squatted on my Indian throw last night:
I like your scarf, it's the colour of Nectar.

"Much-scoured" here on the downs at least
where friable rabbit-hole turf
breaks up into chalk-pans; now, in the mist, receding scurf
exposes slippery sores
on flank, on crested bulwark and chubby shoulder.

Another drink. What's wrong with me?
Is the rain, the salt on a windscreen.. disturbed digestive elation..?
Your scarf is the colour of Cadbury's Bubbly
balloon animation...

Do you know I want to be scraped and tested
(turn away darling, for that would be sin)
to follow the water within
to those chill motley springs in the side of the hill;
set fire to a lorryload of gin,
a bucketful in the wind and a rag leaf waving;
Your scarf is the colour of Premier Inn.

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