A poet. Yes with a King Charles spaniel and up-lighters.
Market stalls and wondering dick heads at chav night.
Sun a March born miracle.
Now gone split glimmer of bright light. Motorway,
Anticipation and cherish like yesterday pluss.
I see them again. Tiny sheep, furry birdies,
As one would expect as we approach crucifixion o’clock.
Barr Barr white sheep, have you any thoughts,
Or is it just my vegan ego thinking for you.
Fur on green a pleasure to see,
A feeling of cute,
As long as i forget their purpose,
The meaning of sheep.
Future dots of death in nature,
Bloody fruits, unfortunately.
Caravans are synonymous with motorways. The sun i think is trying to break through the cloud, as we, John, Miss Nolen and myself drive through North Yorkshire.Them being directly in front followed by many miles of correctly measured tarmac leading to Liverpool, city of culture 2004. My first visit. Little lambs in fields. Fog, lambs and green. Wish i had a zoom lens to photograph this years crop of running little fury cute babies. Pre mint sauce, pre donna kebab’s, pre human shit.