This is a poem for later;
so, please don’t read it now,
it’s still hot from the Poetry Oven,
and has to cool somehow.
.
I’d leave it in the garden,
but the birds will peck it’s face;
and I could pop it into orbit,
it’s cold in outer space.
.
In the freezer there’s no room,
and frozen words are naff;
they thaw out and lose all shape,
like a circular giraffe.
.
No, they can cool quite slowly
at room temperature
(minus 1!)
and the poem should be ready for reading
by August when there’s sun.
Graeme Sandford 