Sunday, 16 September 2012


I remember lots of happy local locusts. 
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
And two short planks.

But happy certainly.  Eating their greens,
Enjoying each others’ company. 
So happy they didn’t know they were happy.

One holy day we watched them swarm,
Shove off, scarper, push off, hop it, skedaddle,
Buzz off southwards.

The locusts were leaving the locality.
When they swarmed they ate the sun,
Made a someone-scored-for-England noise.

One moved they all moved
No locust any otherwards.

Which had me thinking deep and clever thoughts,
You, let’s face it, Piggles, could not share them,
About the unfailing logic of the earth.

You sat on your question-mark tail, waiting for supper,
Thick as a dozy locust but less happy,
What were you good for?  I asked myself.



When was the next time you were pathetic?
That picnic at Karnak with the girls?
You and me (or I, -  a saint may choose,)
With the hamper
On our defective tilting humper?
Four legs being better than three, Piggles,
Especially with camels.

You were pretty dizzy.
It was just too big to put in a poke,  that temple,
Just too grand for a nauseated pigling.
It was just too much.
We squinted up at the inadequate ceiling,
Miles above my tonsura
Miles above little Laura with the aura,
Miles above the glowing nimbi of the holy bimbi,
Miles above your quivering pink snout,
(Well, maybe not miles!)
And you were literally
sickened again.

I know the guide we settled for didn’t help
Startling teeth,  princess shoulders,
Bottom of an Irish cook and the smell of Nubia.
She reminded you of your mum,
Gave us some Theban tedium,
Not one joke!
You, nip-conscious,
Kept out of her way.

For me the highlight was the belly-dance.
Saint Fatima,  bless her, big and beautiful,
Thighs like a glass of Guinness,
Livening up the picnic
With two tassels, a fig-leaf
And that fat scarab in her bouncing navel.
You weren’t too impressed. (Surprise, surprise!)
Dare say you don’t remember much,
Being these days very
But I have only to close my eyes: