Sombrero
You're wearing a Sombrero
though you're not on holiday
Do your children wash
behind their ears?
An aladdin's cave is awaiting you
Its down Croydon
with a topical Sunday Market
The Autumn crocuses
hypnotize you like unwritten sentences
We fled in grief
drawn to dark stained sands
Why not scorn the passing centuries
with the spat mouth of roots and berries
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