When Solomon asked for wisdom, he made a big mistake. God told us so as he left for lunch, but the warning fell on our cloth ears. Minds brimful of beeswax, stolen nectar on our fingers.
We were discussing how, by hand unseen, a creature could be rendered into some other form. I asked whether you perceived a touch of Ovid in me. You said there were no black sheep. Not In this family.
The brother phoned. He wanted to know how the piglets were keeping. There were ten in our yard out back – we took them on leads for a daily walk. Five each. Plentiful squealing.
After that incident with the Palace security guards, you put on roller skates. To keep up, I was Billy Whizz. Didn’t want to be interviewed on Newsnight about those gnomes on the windowsill
who rubberneck through half-closed shutters, shine moonbeams on our darkened heartland. Its staircase garrotted with bunting. In a milk jug on the table, poppies the size of dinner plates.
iii. 2026
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