Ahead of the field,
running wild but still with the pack,
little does she know she will not win
anything–her rider is way back,
unseated at the canal turn,
still kicking his tiny legs in the air.
She stretches out her neck,
and gallops on–a defiant hazard,
as clods of mud fly around,
no cutting whip or heel to scar her flanks,
striking out at her own pace,
into freedom’s strait.
Something to Mend
I have corralled your maverick threads and tucked the unsightly ends beneath your skin. They are all none the wiser about your unravelled condition, thanks to me. Your ripped limb, soft as a lamb’s, reinstated as if it had never been parted from your body. What a curious body it is, half artisan half clumsy homemade-flumpy. Anna fancied you and tried you on her arm and nearly put you in her swag bag, the covetous bitch–oh you certainly have charm. I sponged away a small stain on your side. You are worth rescuing in a world where damaged things are often discarded, not given a second chance at life. Now I’ve saved you from the scrabbling hands of the Rag Man, I hope someone buys you.
Hard to Please
She took her first love on a trip to an island paradise, but something wasn’t up to scratch,
their sarongs didn’t match and their suitcases got lost, so they parted company after that.
She sent swain number two to a pebble beach in the west country, to comb for a lump of whale shit/ambergris, but all he came back with were hands that smelt funny.
Another contender was dispatched to buy quail eggs from the corner shop to hatch, but forgot to grow a beard for the baby bird to nestle in–so he was fired.
And the final one–a lovely lad with a winning smile, together they scaled Mt Everest, holding hands as they clambered over corpses in bright anoraks and bobble hats–
until they reached the very top, but before he had time to plant the flag, she told him,