Tuesday, 15 November 2011

220th miracle is.... weasel poo




211
A trug of frozen apples, hard as
Quartz pebbles, catch the light
Crystal-coated, wondrous, paled
Palm-sized apple plunder

212
The orchard apples drop to grass
Are gathered up by tub and carted
To the freezer, frozen up, hauled out
To defrost, squash, ferment

213
First light halos the demi-johns
On the dining table. Tints of
Translucent yellow, tones of
Red from rose to ruby

214
Another resurrection
Of an ordinary day the light
Ascending through the morning
Colour gradient

215
Malcontent to find myself
Awake so early, until
I draw the old velvet curtains
On this panoramic anomaly

216
The valley is flooded with mist
The moors appear as a series
Of Caribbean pirate islands
Not where I expected to wake

217
This view opens my frown, it
Nudges acknowledgement, I am
Laughing at myself, at my quick
Mood-skip

218
My decision is to make coffee
And sit, watching the colours
Change, outside, the pink
Underbelly of mackerel cloud

219
Somewhere in the fridge is a tin
Of coffee. This week we are drinking
Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks
Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind

220
Maybe this started as a practical joke
But whoever ground up the beans from
The weasel’s poo was on to a good thing
Although the flavour in my cup is synthesised

1 comment:

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here: