The only way to

save this planet

is to call in The Unicorns

goin’ fishing

 

the bus station

without the garden

roof

we look with others

but think alone

 

he met himself

coming back and

the unicorn said

“Are you horny?”

 

arboreal, alliterative

unicorns to buses

tell it like it is,

colouring as you pass

 

descriptive House of Magic,

enticing profusely

with complete enchantment

 

frozen angels in the churchyard

wait for summer at the gravestone

of the anonymous doctor

as the sweaty youth stands

gun in hand looking across

masonry angels defiant

and leaning south

 

rolling out of bed

my ghost lover

is over before it starts

 

don’t gamble

go to the pub instead

in the country of

lost things we are not best

nursing a river of hope

 

the cliff face crumbles

the bus stop cracked

then caught in the image

of gossip, of past lives.