Poem of the Week

Our family traipses home at dawn,

through fields of poppies

the police haven't sniffed out yet.

Children, their tiny boots knocking

the heads off bluish puff-balls,

fighting off mists with a flagging balloon.

We walk as exhausted as nun moths

which, having copulated all night,

rest on a bed of oak leaves.

Damp air turning talc solid

in wrinkles, unfurling perms,

seeking a higher incarnation

in far-off lights.

Someone's slip-on shoe in a steaming turd,

puke on a clump of horseradish leaves.

We struggle across boggy meadows,

stumbling through the valley of Josaphat.