A tin of sardines
A ring pull of Blathering
The spoken words of Mr Eliot
And, in the shadows
The count of Monte Cristo
A plum filled pudding
Plucked strum of soft guitar
Drums over fallen fields
Older angels, and through the door
The whiff of drifted ‘Bisto’
Bacon, wrapped around
The slimmest of sausage
Dripped over and drizzled
Among the goose fat’s goose fat
