a star the size of a ford fiesta
crashed into my back garden,
and all you could think of to say was:
‘oh, has it squashed the primroses?
I liked those primroses’
I'll be honest- I think you
were the only one.
Everyone else thought they were
too much of a cliché to include within
the rest of the poem.
you climbed my back steps like
they were the bone ladder
of Death's own spine, and I could only
spit in your tea for revenge.
your face sticks in my mind
like a smudge on my elbow,
that I crush every time I fold my arms
or rest them on the table.
your face is a battleground,
I stamp my fist on new soil for England.
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