The Shame of Sir Saxmundham

Beyond
his kitchen garden
sits a caravan,
green with mould;
its small satellite dish,
a Freudian slip
of protrusions and dimples.

His relationship
with his wife
has become an ice lolly
sucked-white
of its colour;
all flavour a memory
of youth.

The postie calls at
09.35 most mornings. His
Christmas-tip-investment grin
unaware of the contents
of the parcels
his van holds within.
They are taken and stacked
like Tetris -
the signed-for signature
is a serpent
charming its way out of a box.

On yellow evenings
the Dobsons at Sans Souci
pause during
the washing-up, their
hands cuffed
in white Fairy suds,
as they see
the caravan fire up,
behind distant leylandii.

On Thursday 13 April,
the police arrive -
the squad car’s
orbiting blue eye
hypnotizing brickwork
and passersby.

In the deadly still
they march Saxmundham out,
his features hidden
behind a copy of Shout!