shrouded in miscellany


shrouded in miscellany ( all these poems should called this really, sorry … )

there speaks the voice of raisin

but not the voice of reason

those novelists have lost the plot

as woods scheme acts of treason

your face is in the basin

some stephens are uneven

yon martians in the garden &

in the attic - a demon

yes brass bands they are brazen

as spring's a bouncy season

king arthur sleeps neath avalon

& mum has gone to sweden

trust not ravens or masons

some fiery pyres are beacons

fog's often fog yet dogs are dogs

your fruit is bruised not beaten


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