Two-by-two the unruly crew go forth to mix and mingle

ignoring all requests to sit symmetrically and single.

He tries high-rising intonation, seating plan in hand - says

he’d feel safer if they’d settle down?

They sympathise, but stand.

 

Plan A is folded by day three

into a cracking aeroplane that hits the dove,

and then the sea.

Plan B.

​

For thirty-seven days and nights

unlikely social circles carve

in soft, warm, sawdust wrinkles, and re-carve.

​

Side-winding slides, hard hooves, wide-angled grooves

of dodgy treetrunk sealegs kindly skidding

round the humps of hidden heads.

Stir-crazy scribbling tails, and dips

where flustered, flapping wingtips lap the ground.

​

All Earth is drowned except for this blessed place

Where playful features crease upon a well-worn face.