Flying through Fitzrovia, Cupid collided with a drone. He fell to earth in New Cavendish Street, landing in a bin filled with fast-food detritus. By the time he got himself out, his wing feathers were so tacky with grease, ketchup, and mayonnaise that he couldn’t fly.
It was a gentle devouring to begin with. The abandoned bicycle was settled into the bed of leaves and twigs, and then caressed and entwined by grass, nettles, cobwebs, and questing finger-like branches.
Kentish field flecked with flint.
Farmer picked the flint from field,
Planting piles along the fringe.
The National Trust announced yesterday that it has purchased four acres of woodland adjoining the lorry park of Cherwell Valley Motorway Services on the M40. The Trust claims the site is ‘England’s first dogging location, according to authenticated records and personal testimony’.
Autumn leaves are traffic-pressed, Imprinted on the road I cross, Tokens of a year that’s passing.
Call me Fishpail. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having tired of the comforts of domesticity, and with nothing particular to bind me to my human home, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
