Bumbling Poetry No. 9

Easter

Tropical English bedroom, hanging Sunday,

Dry heat stick of a ground nest. Grown quiet

In comfort, odd nudge and chirp, yawn and sigh.

Folding past hours into neat pages, our

Own broadsheet to flip through. ‘Us and them’ had

No value for a while, your lead story.

The lost youth with doleful eyes knew more and

Less, so heaped with credit, we feared for him.

I’d dreamt of that child’s fresh skin, through my own

Face crumbling. An inside source on our pick-

Up stick limbs said ‘Pray for the lamb, you’re done.’

Still, our main concern is the crossword. Clues

Scatter beyond our affected reach, I

Make the tea. We want for nothing more.