Mrs Uomo on Sheds
Mrs Uomo is watching her new neighbours
build a shed in their garden.
Not a shed really, more of a ranch house.
Three rooms thick. Blocking light, brooding
like Wagner’s shadow. To hide it
she will have to grow a poplar hedge.
Only, thinks Mrs Uomo, over breakfast tea,
it isn’t being built by them but by her father.
A wedding present. When the previous couple
moved in, her father ripped up the grass
at the front and laid bricks. Treacherous in ice
for Mrs Uomo’s wonky hip. They divorced
The Long Grass
‘I think we long-grassed it’ ‒
Boris Johnson MP
Kicked into the long grass
goes the politician’s cliché ‒
confused whether he’s conceiving
of football or cricket
or an uneven playing field
on which the goal posts keep moving
or just even ‒a sticky wicket.
The real long grass is a sanctum
for field mice and beetles, where
snakes slither among ox-eye daisies
where Heath and High Brown Fritillaries
flutter free and rare, where
there’s every species on a summer’s day
except for the common tired cliché.