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.

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