In the corners of our eyes: frisky horses,
unhitched from wagons along the towpath.
Of Bella and the three of us that she dangles
in turn, at any one point at least one of us
is sexting somebody as we picnic on
the buttercupped lawn that slopes down
to the river. We’re young metrosexuals
seeking the sun in an inland watering-place,
urban sophisticates bringing glamour
and elegance to your doorstep. What more
could you want? We swig from flagons;
dream of siestas in the wagons.
Harlequin waves from Hammerton’s Ferry.
If we exist, we do so to make merry.