The raft’s bindings were tied
with thesaurus knots.
Huddled beneath
a beer garden parasol,
she paddled oars,
made of wishbones,
with augmented plate-ends
of Welsh roof slate.
As the fray of the forest,
sludged slowly away behind,
the rains started, briskly.
Demented seagulls
dive-bombed
the little bamboo harbour
off to the left…
and, to the right,
a volcano bellowed
a juggernaut argument
with the dismal sky.
Weaving and bobbing,
ruddering with underside
bottom of wrist…
she darted back towards land,
in between
the caves of stagnation
and the copper fields of tomorrow.
Landing, unnoticed by all
but the Switzerland kingfisher.
Frame arched like a bow,
she reed-ran, spritely,
towards the racket
tumble-spreading outwards
from the waterfall of nonsense verse.
