I wrote this poem one night last October when we had hot, cold and everything in between in a single day. However, it’s the cold at night that I remember the most.
England grins, ridged like Botox, snot runs
marathons along my lip’s crease –
now for a big six down Nasal Valley,
it’s a one-way street – here’s Mr
Vicks, right on time, and the
newsreader says: “one of the coldest days
since The Blitz” as cars bawl like babies on
gritless roads, moving like an octopus on
rollerskates – sprawling figures of eight.
nobody ever, as we’re always pulling
the lever of unpreparedness in the
sluggish seconds, rolled in poundshop
blankets – banquetless on the horizon
of England’s endgame – Miss Winter
has come – sunshine lost,
tossed down her throat,
so now we must keep warm from
her storms that mean us harm.