Wild Garlic and Wilfred Owen


We are all passing, some of us speeding:
Last breath of Sussex, that garlic scent-seeping

‘cross my car-flight, off lamp-dipped byway;
roofless in the dark, dash-muddied spray;

the fear of deer-leaps suspends my ill-state,
I’ll drive too fast, to avoid pain’s complaint.

Drop down, under Barcombe, about ten fifteen,
over The Ouse, banked, by garlic’s foul teem.

My late return home, from a house in Hove:
We carved plans in ply, with Wilfred Owen.

The Beauty Parade

Last year’s beauty queen,
Chelsea, her name,
placed, atop the crown –
Ranieri’s tinkered game:

Hazard, a problem,
sunk Spur’s, enraged,
a trip-up, and gouge;
The Bridge, cruel-staged:

To lift the Premiership,
whilst drunk at Vardey’s,
the ultimate result –
for poorer-paid parties.