The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes


Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.





Haven’t You Heard?


Ostentatious rhododendron:
Cold June’s barometer;
Showy, self important diva,
Two dawns past glamorous heyday.
Bought down by heavy rain,
She seeks attention by flinging
Gaudy nail-varnish blossoms
To the floor like an
Overlooked strip-queen.
They won’t allow you, tomorrow,
To be what you enjoyed being yesterday.
Haven’t you heard: anonymous suits
And grey noddies are creating
The evidence to prevent it.