Author Information
Preoccupation
Three hundred pound decanter filled with port
three decades old, spontaneously bought
from Bergerac in town. It’s crimson slurry totes
of pungent plummy fruit with cinnamon, the notes
of smoke and oak luxuriate me, mate,
its great with smelly brie and stilton ate
with crusty bread and unknown Monet pics;
impressionistic sticks are drawn so quick
by flicks - close up its just a blur of grey.
McEwan’s Child in Time won’t care to say
a word against machetes hacking limbs
that spit their ‘crimson phlegm’ so far from him
in shrinking unmined forests no one sees,
we cared as much for Easter Island’s trees.
WG 18-6-2008
