Am I channelling Chaucer or kicking at the flotsam
and jetsam along the hard shoulder? Forget
those scribbled lines on bus tickets and travel vouchers.
Into the bin.
The moon’s umbra lost to fog
Smothered whispers and the trampling of hay
A curse. My laptop fails to charge.
An upturned pail.
Yo. Yo ho. Yo ho ho.
My sweetheart came clad
in the naked root of ginger. Barley shadows
shifting, unkind pearls strung around
her salty neck.
The Muses, lost in mundane operations,
Fetching the washing, sweeping the floor…
Their scalpels slice the beetroot so…
And now? The thoroughbred that rushed
the windy fields like clouds, is slowed.
But, oh, what folly. The clasp is rusted.
The diamond lost.