With the sting of chilli
Rubbed into my eyes
The day seemed endless
Wash your hands more thoroughly
After you labour at
The chopping board
If the King had been stung
Could not see on the battlefield
It would be your head


Crows in Battersea Park


Trees taking off their leaves for winter’s sleep / By the river the crows wheel as shed leaves in harsh winds / These glossy fowls express their delight at riverside morsels / As the light of the days are trimmed in the northern hemisphere / Each day a candle of less magnitude than the one that precedes it / Each day a river ebbing….