I could talk about the way the stars are

as brittle as daisies and how I cut my fingers


on their petals how they stare and judge

with their cloud foulards and Hermès scent


as lethal as the carrots waiting to be sliced

where the cat squints through half-asleep eyes.


I could talk about how the kitchen knives

are sharp as daisies and so much shinier than turnips


And they smell so much daintier than the corner

of the veranda where the cat was sick.


I could talk about so much that is broken and aslant

or asunder and out of kilter like begonias in


January and the neighbours walking anywhere

like lawn grass without daisies too sharp to cut and


the turnips going mouldy in the bottom of the

fridge with their scent of fallen stars and cat grit


but does anyone really care?

Short and silly

To dispell the blues, a series of short verses inspired by Claudia McGill’s masterly absurdities.


I held out my hand

you took it

blood drips on your shoes.


Take me away from it all

she says

to the bus driver.


She watches the washing

going round and round

her eyes on those red socks.


I heard her say it

he gets up to feed the cat

at three in the morning.


At the checkout

she picks up a dozen disposable lighters

then another one just in case.