The Comer Inner

Sunday morning 
walk in Breton,
with our hats,
new scarves,
old gloves,
boots and 
our dog,
Big Ron.

You
whisper
in my ear
all warmly,
“This one’s by
Gormley”. I reply,
“Oh, I adore Moore”.
You grab my coat, shout

with a Yorkshire frown,
“Don’t come it, love.
We don’t like that
kind of language,
not round here,
not in our tiny
market town,
eh Big Ron?"