The Lick

In the garden
Where the singing starts,

Sipping ginger gin
From a porcelain tea cup,

Talking to the weekend,

Soaking it up.

Blue tits dance
On the graves of dead pets,
Chirping skits like broken toys,

Noises drift then collect,

The chattering mayhem
Of scattershot school kids,

The curdled melody
Of a downbeat ice cream van
Trundling into Autumn,

And the cliched repertoires
Of the local cranks and toddlers

Assemble to swoop then ferment;

There are bats as dusk leaks,
The air is ripe with mischief,

I was nothing when I came here,
Now the lick is bittersweet.

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