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