Strange Ones

Dank noon. You, on the sofa,
curtains drawn, the clean bone
of holly – consumed by the fire.

The I-Pad pitched on your coffee table,
as Bowie trips through his favourite tunes.

Tubby The Tuba, and a punk song
by that well-known punk – Elgar.

Bowie drawls in his last century voice.
I leave you there, curled like a cat.

Watch the sky mosaic until you are with me again.
Snow-crunch underfoot, our breath, smoking.

Later, the fire horses.

And some strange ones there

in the dark



Jonathan Chant
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs




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