He drifted south
down an Arctic seaway
on a plinth of ice, jelly tots
weeping lime green tears
around both eyes,
a carrot for a nose
(some reported parsnip),
below which a clay pipe
drooped from a mouth
that was pure stroke-victim.
A red woollen scarf trailed
in the meltwater drool
at his base, and he slumped
to starboard, kinked,
gone at the pelvis.
From the buffet deck
of a passing cruise liner
stag and hen parties shied
Scotch eggs and Pink Ladies
as he rounded the stern.
He sailed on between banks
of camera lenses
and rubberneckers,
past islands vigorous
with sunflower and bog myrtle
into a bloodshot west,
singular and abominable.
