As Henry touched the low sun
he wrote

Black and White in English

on the forearm of a Daimler Plant

From their Chicory Chairs
the bowmen took aim
at their amazing shelter

In Wet Swindon
the Ghonashh lived peacefully
as they had no natural predators

They talked of the pleasures
of new writing
but were otherwise idle

Upon death their bones were mingled
in Golden Boxes
so that they could walk the streets in unison

In the brief span of his maturity
Henry liked nothing more
than to display his chemicals to trained rabbits

He blended their blindfolded looks
with his overwhelming love
as they sat in semi circles on Scarborough Sands

In any family
there is always a book
that attracts the years  

Even legendary creatures
lead ordinary lives
their tombs betray this fact

On the Herbert Islands
everybody is named Deep Truro
the streets are deserted

There is nothing unusual
about this se se jailskid
as they were never inhabited

Glued to banks of an old wooden chair
were the remains of a newspaper

it had never been read

the news was fresh
history was waiting to happen
the day had arrived
but no-one remembered the morning

Amongst the visible R Rapport Leaves
history was not considered important
only its promises were collected

and these stopped at seven