Lion Gorge, Thurrock
Our mother earth has ancient wounds and fresh
where pelting asteroids have scarred her face
or men have sucked at her sustaining flesh
deriving substance from her fond embrace.
Here they have dug out pallid pits for chalk
where once were places set with ornaments,
with velvet lawns for silence or soft talk
amidst delightful slopes and herbal scents.
Among the naked poppies, one by one
I planted acorns; that was long ago.
From water to the pit’s edge, green was spun
by root and tendril where the oak trees grow.
Around the pits, upon the fertile ground,
a new suburbia spreads all around.
Elizabeth Quéripel of Guernsey
Liz Taylor had eight husbands I believe.
Zsa Zsa Gabor: eight times she changed her spouse.
Good housekeepers they are for when they leave
a man he always lets them keep the house.
Liz Querépel was lovelier than both
and never made a pledge she could not keep.
To go with gallant men she was not loth
but on a marriage bed she would not sleep.
Wild daughter of a wicked witch she was
yet lived among the gentry of the isle;
abandoning the kids she bred because
she liked to leave a lover with a smile.
If when the Germans came she slept with Fritz…
Well! Women must. It won’t be me who spits.
From 'The Book of Ebenezer' Le Page by G. B. Edwards
