I’m in my garden.
This poem needs love, that needs secateurs.
I ruin quite a few trees.
Try hard. Outside objectivity helps.
But you’ve got to keep slouching back to your own Bethlehem.
I don’t read classy writers.
But when I find a lover …
With one shoe off …
Sleeps blanket time, with a thumb in my mouth.
Syrup on the breakfast table.
The last piece of bacon.
1 August 2012