Where am I?
Nobody gets married here
No-one gets out
It’s a machine
of misery and doubt

Police sirens sound
like boiled eggs
in goes a finger
In goes a hand
into the boiling water
to get one out

Angry birds caw into the night
someone stopped them in their flight
to a faraway shore where they will breed.

Saturday comes like a volcano
dormant for a thousand years
Recent signs of activity
brings the crowds once more.

Into it once more
The words flow in conversation
with myself with others the smell
of biro fresh in my mind.

Once the rock is hot the potato cooks
Once the spring is now a brook
bubbling and burbling over stone and gravel
on its way over sea and land.
to somewhere else
than here
where similes wither and die.
pull one over
make a pavlova
and think about old times.

©2017 Andrew Watkins