On the way to Lulworth

Mike and Penny occasioned a tea house

That sold nothing but

Boswell’s London Journal 1762-1763

A fifties edition

Signed by the Queen

The teahouse was called

Review Riva

And was on the main Weymouth Road

Mike was assembling notes

For a book that he intended to write

It would be called

The Graves of Algerian Poets

Penny was looking out of the window

At the perspex purple passers-by

She was also writing in the light condensation

The answers to small mathematical problems

1865
35
1900

114
35
149

7 x 20 -7=133

Like all patrons they purchased a Boswell

And headed south in their

Low Slung

Ruby Red

Sports Car

As they were passing the Stem Ginger trees

They felt an overwhelming desire to create a child

And stopped in a lay-by

Surrounded by lakes

And created a son who later became

The MP for Shetland East

Later when in the cathedral city

They were invited to climb the spire

But declined as they were both atheists

And did not wish to be closer to God

Instead they served coffee to Malaysian visitors

And told them that that the only true Christian

Died on the Cross

When passing through Wool

They were hit by a train

Which wrecked their car

And forced them to walk the remaining miles

Without their Boswell

When reaching Durdle Door

They met a man called Arthur Moule

Who had been to China

And had witnessed

The Taiping Revolution

He had executed Hong Futian with an olive branch

And had killed many men

With his kindness

But now

Alone

He wrote poems about the sea bound arch

And waved at the

Passing Panama Ships

They ended their journey

In an Officers Mess

Overlooking a range

Scarred by battles

Both mock and real

And ate well

Before they retired

To an upper room

Where they could see the rocks

And the waters beyond

Greeting a mysterious woman

Who did not turn

As she walked the path

To the height of the cliff

Reading an ancient Persian poet

In a hushed voice

Distinguished only by its silence

Their day complete

Mike and Penny

Lay on the hoof hard beds

And dreamt of

Octagons falling from the sky

Piloted by their decending angels