A clear Clarence Day muse
And Hackney carriage queues
And cough to work
On this birthday.
Sappy della Fronte
Cappy tella Conte
Frappe Latte Chante
And a small cake.
Morse code telephone
Text mode tickertape
SMS twittering
And an email.
Lunchtime nattering
Window-shopping flattering
Sack burst scattering
And a broken heel.
Eye strain overhead
Clock pain then he said
Have a good one, Emily
And a crowded tube.
A dear Kennington fuse
Burns bright to bomb
Delight in the half light
Of home at last
And always will be
Tight in wet wood
And cracked plaster
And fast laughter
And passed after
And held fast.
9/1/2011
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Expiatory note: My daughter tells me she has never worn high heels.