September 8, 2025Poem
There will be those
griefnature
There will be those
Who say
They know
What is what
From what is not
Why is a blood orange?
Paper mache mountains
Melt in summer
Glace cherries
On cocktail sticks
Float down to the sea.
Salted caramel
Is a bitter salad
Not fit
For purpose
As the wind whispers
False dawns
Into the ether
And on a pleasure beach
In Blackpool
Sad sacks
On deck chairs
Are stacked neatly
In a row
With every stripe
Accounted for.