Crow Storm

Burning like a crow storm 

Off the sea of fate 

My mind was born in the forest 

And brought up on an estate 

I know that England's dreaming 

Has died like Tommy Cooper 

No more itchy teeth 

And wild Antarctic flights 
of cigarette pack haute couture 

Rattling in the stalls 

Like primitive tribes 

Of Brylcreemed executives 

Taxi drivers 

And whiffs 

Of monte Cristo 

Rippled through with sherry

Caressing their unctuous prevalence 

For vexatious litigation 

Like a bowl of jelly 

Up against the caravan 

With a ball and socket 

Going to la Luna land 

Knitted shawl and bullet

Friday night is pattern night 

Every Friday night that is 

Except for weekends and hot days

When brown crotchery offends 

Burning like a skiing graft 

My scuba diving mask 

Still smells of the Maldives 

Where I left it on the bus 

Don't you think of Jesus 

When you're eating bitter fruit 

The burning crows retrieve us 

Like a dead comedian 

Being dragged behind the curtain

"That reminds me, 

must get a stamp."

july/august 2017