Under a stiff corrugated sheet
was a lizard king – an envy green –
coloured in by me of your wild place
hidden by your bungalow frontage –
Bungalow is a foreign word
replanted a century ago in this country
Your garden is an eyed up tunnel –
what the Scottish call a howk –
dug out by regard to your gate to Sussex
Your offered photography competition
places me in my last century Surrey
of huge distances lain in eyed safaris
when we met insects in squared up inches –
propped on our grass-moulded forearms
Such measurements were lost – until now
And then a sumptuous dragonfly stages
her circumnavigation of your soupy pond
to bring me back from my I-Spy enquiries
