Rupert Mallin on the Other Side of the
One Small Rural Crime
Dear Heather
My finger could linger
In your ear hole, coal hole dear;
Twice as nice
And darker than spice,
The curls of your morning conditioned hair
Across your tatty bear Chuff
And your soft toy mole Bill...
I sit here in pain in the bus shelter of your boundaries
For I am merely a pebble to your pan tiles,
One small rural crime in your database of incidentals,
An uninteresting microbe in your wondrous dish of bacteria,
At edge, wanging stubble bombs over 'important matters,'
Hoping against hope that the centre will fold
And that we will all be reborn sexy but sexless,
Enterprising without enterprise,
Our God merely a handful of slippery mud.
And the word 'love' will wither away
For we will all be in love.
But until then I shall cling to the edge of the glass,
Hurl my bombs and think about
The curls of your morning conditioned hair
Across your tatty bear Chuff
And your soft toy mole Bill...
© Copyright Rupert Mallin 2003