Smoke-stained wood and darts

and pints and stolid cast iron legs.

There’s safety in these, security -

the heavy regiment turns

to train its guns on the other sex.


A knowing landscape is his face,

vulgar as a scarlet cod-piece,

with sniggers of a rolling night -

agreed by these bad teeth

sneering at reputations and leering at hers

and, mocking unknowingly his lust,

this next would not touch her

with the conventional article,

so turns to spectacled thin grey face

who has a wish he too must mask

for vanity - opportunity is lacking

and he does not care to venture

in so slight a cause.


‘Bitter, love ....   a nod;

the change goes firmly down.

Draughts of furtive hiding,

each knowing well a single look

would bring the spaniels panting.

Lechery inspires no fear but love

at ten past ten the only ghost unlaid.


Possessing this sanctuary alone,

these warriors will guard their own.

◄ Coins in the Trunk

Poppy ►


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