Richard

On your desk
rotting corpses,
the Granny-Smith Graveyard
grows twice a day.

Skin of twenty pencils
HBs, Bs, 2Bs,
the green ones
from Jarrolds

Two oak leaves
from the river
near the cathedral
deydrated
by an awkward lamp
all elbows and knees
you watched every vein crack and splutter.

Television as silent partner
adorned with marmalade
hairs from your beard
animated only
by Bridge Over the River Qwai.

Your needle seeps Gaba
through bare walls
dripping onto earbones of distant friends.
You'll go far Richard.