A small tug on my forelock
at the sweetshop lady

a sheela na gig hands me the small change
and slips a chocolate orange in me

Stumbling out I reflect on the fact
that its all rather painful really

and I go home to open myself outwards
to the computer

Later when I go for milk
the swallows make a pattern for me

a vast tapestry of flapping
like a bomb that casts birds on me

I watch them crashing down
and after a time it comes to me

nothing touches me right
nothing gets in my hair like a death doesn’t

and this landscape
full of liars
has got nothing to do with me