Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The concrete cows In Milton Keynes Were sometimes pink And sometimes zebra-striped But see Inside was iron chicken wire And newspaper For cows with town and village life Grew very stuffed indeed. Outside each cow Was blended dyed In concrete for a different shade of hide ’Til townies thought they ought to all Be painted black and white (or sometimes pink Or sometimes zebra-striped). The papers bore A ransom once For absent calf removed. And papier-mâché bull bore all our scorn. But concrete cowpats turn our frowns From passing trains all upside down In passing concrete cows Near Milton Keynes.

Forged of timeless power yielding Strength only to Arthur, see Excalibur in stone and water Wielding flames while Avalon remains Above the elements, for healing.

“Hogwash,” said the American. The Brit looked round at streets and litter, searching for a pig perhaps in a barrel of water. He reached for the wallet that lurked in his inside pocket. Perhaps the stranger hoped he’d give him cash to buy a hog and wash it. The American, wise to concealed weapons permits and their flaws, promptly pulled out a gun. Luckily the bullet missed the Brit, embedding itself in a wall, where it pinned a fruit-fly that nobody mourned. “Hogwash,” said the American, but the Brit turned sadly away. He still maintained his belief in gun control.

“Two, four, six, eight; who do we appreciate?” “United” was the answer you were meant to shout. United; they’d appreciate united. Then “One, two, three and a quarter; who do we want to slaughter?” The answer to that one was “City.” United wore red, and City wore blue—ManU the good guys; City ever bad, or so she thought. The trouble was, they're just words; she never understood which one was which. One Catholic team, one Protestant; one appreciated, the other one set for slaughter. “Two, four, six, eight...” “What comes next little sister?” Oh brother, how Lizzy hated eight.

Warm and sweet, thick’n heavy, the air is treacle and bubbles release their childhood scents from the pan; jam butties for lunch. “Peanut butter’n jelly,” says the voice in her head, but what have peanuts got to do with fruit? “If you fall in the jelly you’ll be in a jam,” chants the memory of children and books. “But Mum, what’s jelly got to do with jam?”—American books that couldn’t even spell “colour.” Ah, but Sheila’s American now, spells “color,” eats “Jello” at parties… and stirs the pot of memories, warm and sweet; jam butties tomorrow, flavored with love.