Spring is delicious in flames and ginger,

the dead dog’s tree is opening out right- 

buds with the smallest flickering of

acid house in the tip, finally and all after 

we had given it up. The fairy ring as a pink 

mouth and a just-kiss from his best friend

smashes it up into the April. This year

we are not allowed outside- it suits me fine

for only the forest is sad without the old gang,

me and Doggin. I had not been up there, 

for to clock the loss of together would be 

too much, right. Kinga was vivid, every old lady

would fizz and cry such a beautiful dog. And he was.

A streak of fire in the trees, his white trousers

at the back bobbing along under his fern-proud

tail, everyone loved that boy. This year we are 

not allowed outside, but it suits me down to 

the ground- old World with its all kinds of glitches,

some good stuff like cinema and magicians,

but mostly ice. They’ve gone and done it now-

the whole of the everything’s shut. The place is 

in bits and it’s not so bad, just an egg-coloured 

ghost with dark wailings of Easter all in scrambles,

I’m opted out, see. Spring is the king and I’m free.