Whatever Happened to Funny Bunny?

Father sings Russian lullabies as he drives
the coast road, the island like crushed glass.
We pass beneath the kissing trees.
One, two, three, four, here comes bunny for a run.
Five, six, seven, eight, here comes farmer with his gun.
Ready now, nine and ten…

I watch funny bunny burn in the living
room stove. Ember eyes shine and fade.
Synthetic fur shrivels as flames swallow
my beloved black and hollow.
My fist clenches a secret lock and I crunch
Frosties from a Beatrix Potter bowl.

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Photographic image created by the author

The Winter Break

The blizzard began, cherry blossom from a flame sky. The road home
vanished. Pink ice floes shape-shifted in the river, bumping
and grinding like clubbed seals. We tended the fire
and played strip poker. In bed you wore lipstick and a balaclava.

On the third day we tracked through the crystal forest. The valley
was a fandango of silence. I clawed at it with my bare hands.
You held your phone up high, immobile as the Statue of Liberty.
We returned to the cabin and played Scrabble with four letter words.

The windows became peepholes. I saw no footprints in the virgin drift,
only the farmer’s wife floating silver between the tree tops.
She was wearing a wolf jacket, her face upturned to the falling snow.
That night you thought you heard singing in the wind.

On your last day, you stopped speaking, stayed in bed, a tender huddle
of bones. I roasted meat on the log fire and drank Jack Daniels. I recited
the tale of our first New Year’s Eve, kissing in Times Square
while rockets fell. I could still remember the neon taste of your flesh.

 

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Photograph created by the author

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picnic at Wuthering Heights

Sundays, dad drives, mum folds
maps, me in the back seat of our black Ford.
We meander from Gargrave to Stump

Cross to Oxenhope Moor. Stone-walled
boundaries streak beyond misted glass. I choke
down nausea, cross fingers and legs.

Squatting in ragged robin roadsides, we search
for traveller’s joy. Weave delicate chains of wild
amid the stench of exhaust. We chew hardboiled

eggs, salamis, gherkins, hard cheese with red rind, wilted
sarnies from Tupperware. Me and Mum sip tepid tea, plastic
brittle-edging my lips. Dad drinks Double Diamond.

The wind blows cold. We seek shelter in damp beneath
dry stone walls ignoring the holes where carefully selected rocks
fail to interlock. I look for Heathcliff in dark crevices, hiding

secret notes, names scribbled on scraps. Northerly
gusts breach the wall until we shiver. Whipped
silent, we scatter our crumbs and leave.

 

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Original Photograph by the author

 

 

The Day She Dropped

the trifle, it exploded on blue tiles pain
-ting cryptic signs churned in chaos.
Raspberries, cream, vanilla custard, glace cherries, perfect
sponge, (home-made of course) secrets
hinted by hundreds and thousands
no-one would ever understand. The cold
glister of broken crystal, the old bowl her ex
brought back from Paris at his own risk.
She wanted to laugh until she saw
his face at the head of the table, the half
-empty bottle of Smirnoff, his plate strewn with left-over
Christmas, the scrunched up paper napkin, handy for blood
spilled when she tried to pick up the pieces.

 

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Original photographic image created by the author

Note:- Divorce lawyers claim January is usually their busiest time of year.

Tips for a Perfect Christmas

Transform your family with tinsel
strategically arranged around the living.

Download seasonal hits by Wizard and Slade.
Repeat play while you cook, clean and defecate.

Anoint your sprouts with the sacred cross of Jesus.
Wrap your pigs in blankets, protect from sudden frost.

Check your bird every ten minutes. Truss her tight
with silly string. Baste with juices from your pot.

Brandy will add flavor to the tasteless.
Provide plastic antlers for your guests.

Check your fairies are operational in advance
to avoid disappointment on the big day.

Choose carefully the special someone
to cherish at the top of your tree.

Inappropriate choices will make the whole day die.

 

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Original Photograph created by the author

 

 

 

The Last Weekend

Your memory melts like snowflakes in the fire I
built when we camped in the Black Mountains and you

thought you saw a wolf. I tried to keep us
safe, stayed alert feeding flames. When you

woke next morning you laughed, said you’d
made the whole thing up. Everyone

knew there were no wolves in Wales and I
was the stupid one. When we left, a blood moon

was skimming the razor’s edge of pines. You
swilled beer in the passenger seat while I

stamped out every ember, kicking
a cover of earth over the remains.

Night falls blind in the forest. Alone,
I drove the tunnels of trees, my lights

shifting shadows and the shape of you
flickered for an instant before melting into dark.

 

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