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At night here the trees are broccoli
that give our camp fires vitamins.

The sun, unlike a lozenge
Is harmful to our health

we sweat in our tent skins
spit roast our knees

and are shocked when friends tell us
we look like oblong peach baked beans.

The crowds are craftily coloured sweets
produced in a factory that I want to trolley sweep.

A lemon sherbert swings past
with plasters on her legs

half top hat
half nut allergy.

I spatula press my happy pillows
into my baking tin black top

stare at my wrist
strung up in yellow beads.

I am a corn on the cob cooked in coriander
for the boy who holds my hair back.

He cant decide whether to tooth tap along
as if a typewriter

or scroll like a blackberry
that has private pips

in place of the plum coloured wristband
that gets us in to green rooms

where we lick and eat everything.