Can’t see close any more,
never could see far,
like milk-bottle arses.
And my eyes are having
one last pre-new prescription joke
at my expense.
This morning’s gas-bill
I read as
Your gay statement
and consequently couldn’t make sense
volume conversion factor
credit carried forward
it all seemed rather cheering somehow,
after all those monthly payments,
a whole life celebrated
in the final lines
© James M Nash
With the confidence of the very drunk
I claim intimate knowledge
of a short cut.
We clamber over a corporation stile,
and the salad green of young hawthorn leaves
brushes our faces.
Suddenly the stars make sense
now we are in the landscape.
The hedges grow as they have always grown
separating ancient fields.
Houses and factories disappear.
like long stored country wine,
is in the air,
the soft-crushed grass.
We hold hands like children in a story-book
clutching each other
with thin laughter,
old fears bursting our urban skin,
as large animals
rise from the ground,
lifting themselves like giants’ feet,
and lumber off snorting
leaving only their heat behind.
© James Nash (Deadly Sensitive) 1999