There sprouts among cabbage
leaves the formal
poppy hour,
a sandy love
must emigrate.
On your way! Chutneys
are fermenting
on the shelves, we can
pluck spiders’ webs
along the canal,
and fill our pockets
full of sand
from the building site
without being noticed;
we could, were it not
for the fences,
go cross country
as far as Amsterdam.
I’ll give
you a snail for the road anyway,
that’ll keep you going for a long time.