Scoop of ice-cream;
swoop of crow;
sweep of chimney;
swipe of card;
wipe of eyes;
whip of walnut;
ship of fools;
shape of things to come;
shop of horrors;
chop of karate;
chip of block;
chap of style;
clap of thunder;
clop of hoof;
slap, slap, slap
of finality.
Picture this…
A magpie atop a skeletal tree;
calls a message that is far beyond me
and my ability to understand.
He, or she, then flies off;
of perching and calling
they’d had enough;
time, now, to travel on, upon airwaves so fine,
to visit a mate;
and under that moment
I draw a line.
They held a Pasty Party,
but nobody came;
the flyers said ‘Party Party,
which really isn’t the same.
Spin it round
like a record;
make it move in circular ways;
when it returns to the beginning
it can walk as if in a daze;
revolutions in ‘33, ‘45 or ‘78
overthrew the governance,
and now the pasty
must run to ketchup.
If each beach
was out of reach,
how would we walk upon the sands?
Eating toast
on the coast
is something you can do –
inland, you can eat toast, too.
Trying to place each word
in its apposite place
is an endeavour
of great pith and moment.
Sometimes my efforts
are rewarded by a gem;
more often than not,
it is a little one –
of the lettuce variety.
