The Abbot

One
STILT for the one-legged
ABBOT to balance on. One
CHAIR for the Abbot to sit on, in
MAUVE, the Abbot’s number one colour.

No-longer-puppy

FETCH! I yell at my mooching dog,
BERTHa. This no-longer-puppy is ever-the-
IDLER. She saunters round in her own
ORBIT. The stick lies stuck in the mud.

Crossing Inferno

IDLER, came to senses, nowhere, tangled in a thicket.
BERTH then took on freighter, crowded among other lost souls.
ORBIT left, all is blackness dotted by sharp star light. Does he
FETCH up on new shore, new understanding? Does he find a guide?

Ovine gloom

MISSY, I miss you a lot, my sunshine, moonshine
OVINE. This, your resting place, your supine space, midst yellow
BROOM – a kind of womb with heaps of room – where your
SOAPY wool now cools, while my soul’s a darkroom full of gloom.

Ah, cruel fate!

The
SUITE was tiny, my stay not helped by the
TRUNK being undeliverable. Ah,
CRUEL fate! Even though I don’t travel
ALLOT, I still have the worst traveller’s tales.