The anniversary booking left to chance,
the usual late availability websites
yielding nothing within the budget,
we bit the bullet, took what we could get:
a chain hotel near a construction site.
Arc lights; noise. Not to sleep, perchance
to regret not being organised. Sealing
the deal: grubby carpet, walls a cork-
board colour, duvet stained. We opined
the shittiness, then shrugged; opened
our anniversary champagne. The cork
came out in sympathy: scarred the ceiling.
Her Husband, the Poet
He’s like a gannet: he’ll use anything.
The broken dinner set, the overdraft,
an argument. Then he’ll juxtapose it
with the image of a gull’s wing
marking the sky like a surgeon’s knife
over a sea-flecked limb of sandspit.
He knows the difference between
analogy and metaphor. But check
the browsing history when
he finally lets you have the laptop back:
sandspit. Nice image. He Googled it.
The Thought-Crime Fox
(after Ted Hughes)
Picture this midday hound-crazed woodland
where the “hulloo” is less John Peel
than smug satisfaction at the hunting ban repealed,
where a streak of red like dried blood
or rust disappears into the treeline. What
follows is fast and bloody: no time for the delicate
imprint of a paw, a nose attuned to the late
spring air; none of that. Instead, the sudden hot
stink of cordite. The forest resounds
to small arms fire and screaming. A fox
in Kevlar, paws clutching a Heckler & Koch.
The dogs scatter. The huntsmen are down.
Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book ‘The Films of Sam Peckinpah’. His poetry has appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Morning Star, Art Decades, The Blue Hour, Nib, Full of Crow Poetry and London Grip. He is married and divides his time between the pub and the cinema.
Neil’s blog can be found at misterneil.blogspot.co.uk/