Three Poems

Three times in the weekend
I will visit the baker's; sesame rolls
balloon in the palm of my hand.
At the dry-cleaner's I admire
the varnish of wrapping

clinging to a jacket.
In the picture framer's
one colour placed upon another
rises like roofs of Land Rovers
above the dry-stone wall.

Sheep turn and bite the tics
in curlicues of fleece. Grass
or snow, sheep are picked out
on the field. My step-son
runs back from his school,
...