A bird was singing in the elm tree;
at least, I think it was an elm tree but
I’m not good on trees.

Underappreciated and misunderstood but nevertheless charming and witty and an endlessly helpful
set of limbs and brain cells whose holiness is outstripped only by their modesty.

Hello to a farmer in a countryside field,
where lambs gambol and munch grass.

Superficiality is no vice (I think that’s how it goes) and this is no time to lurk in
the misty regions of symbolism, where matter is not perceived as strange enough.

Below ground is fraught with risk, so I avoid it where possible.

A recent shift towards dressing up in the hope of getting an amusing reaction
is one of the most important (if disturbing) examples of bubbling good humour
(and is also brilliant).

The carpenters of song document a rich inner life
in a world where you can buy a stick to hold your phone.
This is self-love.

No longer sarcastic, patronising and loud
I am now more a patchwork of beliefs and fears and certainties and doubts.

I intend my next poetry poem to be fantabulous
but must wait until I am in the right mood.

It’s pleasing on occasion to state the obvious
and listen to the applause in your own head.