Storm Petrel

I met a Storm Petrel
in a filling station.
It offered me a ride.

Just then a Ford Transit minibus
and a Leyland DAF 15-seater
drew up and disgorged
what looked like a fetish club’s
weekend outing

All wore black or shiny black
apart from the flash of body piercings
and short peroxide hair.
They were shaking hands and shaking fists
about whether the vans took 4-star or diesel.
They got it wrong.

My bird and I
flew north against
a purple sky….

There was a noise below
like in the Lockerbie disaster.
I saw an explosion of bursting suitcases
split-crotch panties flew in the air
(one got caught on the petrel’s beak)
there was a shower of vibrating whips
and corsets and handcuffs, and tips
from the other pony club and clips
for your tits and all kinds of ordinary stuff
like toothpaste and clean socks.

When the smoke cleared
the people sat balefully
on the hard shoulder
eyeing their shattered

Then the police arrived
all chequered and flashing lights
and arrested the people
for lewdness.

If only they’d used diesel

We flew on
and the storm passed























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