Change rooms, change behaviour, change times.
Change partners, change parents, change poetic style.

The diary under my bed reveals truth but I still ebb away before your eyes
From the shadows she whispered,
Power proliferates, changing buses, changing lives,
Running away from somebody else’s husband

Profiteroles? I love profiteroles said Chaucer but I can't spell it.

Asking myself what would Nigel do?
Something to get your teeth into, or gas and air,
We will what comes from this birthing.

We do what women do
Innate positions, no restrictions, less poetic profiteering
Women languish in the shadows of men’s gas lights.

She wore velvet handcuffs as sunbeams bled into dusk
With Nigel holding her hand until she walked off the page
A foreboding slash across pastoral beauty.

Confessions of a bus driver – it didn’t happen to me,
It happened to someone else – please put on your trousers
Before you reach your stop.

Unknown pleasures still in the final dance of life
Pathological in its emotions
Pallied moonlight, burnished mysteries.