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God for a fortnight, pharaoh
till the generator blows, then what?
This week’s most missed:
the shipping forecast; showing off.
Write ALIVE in the meadow
with empty blue oil drums in case
clouds can read/stars give a toss.
Two million years of shame
takes some shucking off – I still
nip behind a wall to exude.

Mandrake prospers in the cracks.
Corned beef and cling peaches again;
note to self: start growing stuff.
Along the station’s oxidised tracks
every minute pulls in on time.
Ripples on the lake: ditto, ditto.
On the plus side my golf swing’s
unrecognisable these days. Love is:
an afternoon in the glyptotheque
with Madam Kalashnikov.