Black sky draws green from grass,
And yellow hope from daisies,
To carve blue electric paths,
Through the caravanic mazes,
To the plates of orange fingers,
In smoked galleries of kippers,
Blackcurrant lips still chlorinated,
And fizzing limbs sedated,
By butterflies and crawls.

There’s a bright red Raleigh in the rain,
A fly-away footy weather vane,
Scoring own goals against no-one,
Between abandoned rainbows of jumpers,
Floating in the puddles,
Sleeves swimming in a loop,
Within a hot pink hula hoop,
Poaching the field,
Steaming the weather,
Pegging our tent,
In the storm of forever.

When can we go back out to play?
Cushion beige,
Ketchup rage,
Can’t you kids keep anything clean?
Take this money,
It’s not funny,
Hurry up and finish your beans,
So I can tidy up this mess,
And don’t you dare forget:


Beyond the copper waterfalls,
Candyfloss trees and steel pinballs,
In the outhouse weathered green,
A dandelion arcade machine,
Contains a pixel paradise,
Of RGB at a reasonable price:
A silver coin for a single player,
To explore a different layer,
Of this reality cake baked in Heaven,
Served on a caravan park in Devon.

Check out a poem about flatpack furniture and fate.