Runcible Spoon

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Dominic James



The tail end of the carnival;

the plush has gone, its peaches fade

and of that glossy coat you wore

just silver loops of fur remain;

the triumph of our pride has failed.


Along its esplanade rough timbers

clothe the holly oak beneath which rode

those dappled pipers fluting tunes.

Consider then your hollow hopes

as glory’s dream runs quiet:


be calm. The hearthstone’s flame retains

its honey lambent glow, the pinpricks

of night’s patterned sky – full well

you know – mark out a path to follow

far beyond life’s narrow disappointments.