No convictions, that's my one major fault
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
On a late bruised-looking roadside weed, a butterfly
Part of the problem in this house is hormones.
People talk nonsense and I put them straight
So by the winter of 1911 there were no more than nine
So here it is, the walled-up door
So the holiday proceeds, a series of snapshots
Some said he must glower at his mistress
Spindly in a heat-haze, almost out of sight
That would be my worst nightmare.
The autumn, when the convicts took their leave
The June moors whispered and rustled their cloaks
The milk and the post arrive with a baby
There were beech trees there, three of them
They sit as far apart as you can in a small compartment
They walk too far, out in the sticking mud
Those bastards in their mansions
Though she'd only a dove's flitting of a family herself
What's on, my dear Ellie Menterry?
When did I ever see you wear a hat?
When I was twelve I fell and broke my elbow.
Winters or springs, summers or harvest, bristling or sunning
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed
Women had little guts, except for one or two
Yes, but what about the spiders?
You are near again and have been there
your man is long gone, and I have loitered
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment