One day I shall kill myself

hurtling down the Wyche Cutting

then I won’t be laughing

quite so much.

I smile at her logic

as I lean on the zenith.

 

Worcestershire lies,

a page spread to edit.

I can touch the horizon,

I could race someone on it

like cyclists careering

round an unbroken circuit

wondering who’s in the lead.

 

I smooth out the contours,

moving smudges from edges

to see if I’m the winner

and dip my fingers in a splash

of shimmer, daub a little azure,

ochre and verdure

on the large marquee

where the flags fly over.

 

Three counties are captured

in the corner of an eyelid;

a paraglider lands

in a spot unsighted;

dog shows and flower shows

with kids entertainment.

I’ll paint a gay coloured

gipsy encampment

and refuse to sign

the petition of protest.