Meringue Pupa, Vandalised Bomb, Eleventh Hour Udder:

he went by many names

but today

Moomintroll is shrink-wrapped in the gammon carousel

at Waitrose,

his fat in circles round him like a hoopla peg,

rumour, though, suggests dementia

after ten years as a full-time semen donor,

his sex identical to windscreen wipers

though renegade and twice as squeaky.

Whatever,

Death the Chiropractor culled

his valley calcium

manipulated his cranial sac

and turned his plush into a single-seater.

Cut grass holds a faint petrol scent; meadows mown.

A thin white plastic stick with petal-edged cup emerges in a cut and tumbled wave; becomes a rose woven into the surface: an ornate brooch upon the lapel of a green woollen jacket.  

Dried golden-brown by the sun, and removed forcibly from its host: a shattered limb, fissured; paper peeled away: revelations from its past.  

Splayed hands, jagged fingers that lift, curl in the breeze, stroking bodily warmth.

Underneath, a vast green-yellow stubble appears, and just-visible roots.

Rapid warm blades pierced this rich earth, disturbed its surface noise, all un-knitted, it will soon be knitted back again.

Soft fuzzed bands of red and black are broken: an intimation of evening thunderstorm, a parting cloud.   

Legs grasp at nothingness, remember portals, stems, petals, light and shade. Two perfect eclipses reflect a sweet working life fulfilled.