Wednesday

The Ching


The Airfix egret startles, 

gone mystic to basic in 0-60,


The Cow Parsley’s arms 

from a folk dance or swords


Stashes rat, a conduit, rustic 

as pasta. Streaking the freeway


Where once he died, dense

as an unthrown pot, Ming tail


ironed flat by a pushchair-

also died, pestle-ground down 


Like mince. Nature corridor

they call it, the homeless in pop


Tents like pyramid tea bags 

worn thin to oblivion. Sapped


To the max yet there goes

the Ching, through stabbings,


The unsure limbs of demographics,

the toilety dogs of the elders, older


Ever indifferent, conveyor of ducklets,

all being, all shewing, all flow.