Pale, invisible,
faces bob above the walkway
like so many clouds,

fingers of human, frozen
tight into February,
jingling.

Pockets turn
for Moon Balls, the 
glow in the dark

bounciest balls of all.
Any old shit from
the pound shop quite

frankly, just 
like Ray Mears with his
sticks and gentle

coercion, lights
a tiny spark that climbs
into fire. Quality 

Street. Drown out
the ever early brutal
mornings,

soldier on. Treat
yourself, island
dwelling- a type of

war, must be
compensated. Finger
the goods!

Buy your dog a
cut-price Xmas bone 
of latex: Chupa Chups.