Droplet trail

When I wallowed in the culvert, I held deep converse

With a synaesthetic slug who loved a snail.

“Sir,” I said, inclining my head, “I intend

To write yet more verse.”

“Orange,” he replied, “and yet, here’s the rub,

She! She is aquamarine.”


When I found her she proved to be a witch

Whose glistening was worn and carried off well.

“My lady,” I gasped, “tell me about Love.”

And she stretched out her shining frame and

Promised me the earth – if I’d only

Net the sea.


Now I once knew an island there.

So I set out in search. I called out her name,

The island’s; seven hundred and eighty-nine

Songs told me that Europe now had her.

“Boy, you don’t need her, you don’t need us,

You don’t need the sea – ‘snot your calibre”


I wondered, true, if it was a question

Of technique. Should I try Moments?

Slug? Witch? Sounds?

“No,” said Dylan and the faculty,

“Keep yourself about you.

What else do you know?”