The flat bleak eastern-european plains of Lincolnshire
near The Romany Museum at Cowbit (pronounced 'Cubbitt')
hosting The Big Top.
I am talking with the clown in a dirty high-viz vest
about artistic integrity,narrative,selling England by the pound.
It is not the time.
Lights have to be fixed
and the ringmaster in his palaced and articulated abode
is wondering if the Romanian high-wire act
(they've come a long way since the Carpathians)
will plank the mud over by the ticket-office,in time.
Sylvie,the contortionist,recently wrenched from her mother,
is explaining her three cracked vertebrae.
I suggest her blocks might be
bronze and silver and gold.
She says they are already
black and white.
If you have any comments on this poem, Peter Handley would
be pleased to hear from you.