Another of my occasional "Hamish Sheaney" poems that pokes fun at a poet with a very similar name!
I am seduced by muck.
The dirty, humid, moist, marshy,
miry, thick, sludgy mud of Ireland
cloys as I wash with it,
dance in it,
slide on it,
uncover leathery corpses buried in it,
discuss Greek mythology with it,
hear legends in the squelches
and cram it into jars for the windowsill,
my earthy collection,
to display in our cottage kitchen.
My love appears, radiant and glowing,
ready-brekked in a red mist,
and produces a screech of mouth-noises
using Anglo-Saxon wordplay:
“You can move that feckin’ lot outside.”