Submitted to the editor via SMS message from an unknown source:
A cheese that was aged and grey, was walking and talking one day, said the cheese 'kindly note, my mum was a goat, and i'm made out of curds by the whey'
A cheesemake from near you named O, Asked the Troll for some 'food to go', The Outcome of which, was not a Sandwich, but a fig roll and prunes. Oh NO!
I picture you solo, setting out to reap
the sloes we'd polish, one by one and steep
in gin, skin punctured, like rich beads to thread
upon a string of minutes, till the red
seeps through like blood. Unhurried, you distill
slow dawns in which our wishes to fulfil.
Warming the winter of blue-black Pluto's reign, these berries startle with their scarlet stain, commemorating the rape of Proserpine, abducted, which brought summer's swift decline:
cause and effect; this you taught me through a game of snooker, lining up the cue. Like Pluto, the last-discovered planet, sloes put limits on the season, mark a close.
