Saturday, 15 May 2010

Red Young

Hamilton Fensby, my local gardener, handles his ware at a pace more pleasurely than leisurely.
Fawn, he repeats and peat he emits.
No more utopia blue, his gaze.
'What do you do when your designs are flawed?'
'I just let 'em talk of petering out'
'When the fields are gone will the cows take out mortgages?
Will the sheep get full-time jobs?
I guess we won't have to worry about closing the gates anymore.
Well, they'll be neatly replaced by a housing estate.
He caught us in his castle, hidden under-chair, we shiver, quiver and stare.
'FE-FI-FO-FUM...I smell the blood of an Englishman'

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