The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes

Flitting,

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.

 

Image: www.jennacartwright.com

26/7/2013

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.

18/6/2013