duvet

Duvet.


Continental quilt, the hills of Wales, decked by
grazing sheep, ancient coal dust on wool; sheep
live forever around here, if not, at least for fifty
five years, some say sixty eight.

The moon is a pale sliver the rind of a cheese
thrown away by a spoilt baby troll that would
rather eat a lamb with mint sauce and boiled
potatoes. Yes, and cabbage too

Deep in the vale, amongst slag heap made by
the toil of yesterdays’ miners, a house burns
a holiday home, the firemen drink tea, take
their time and wait for morning light.