Silver Winged Tights

Amid vagary, vulgarity and vicissitude

Among the mithering mist

and molehill muck

Across white-frighted grasses

to the jack-nattered mudscrape

There she stands in her silver winged tights

and robotic robes

Her trousered blouse about her bosoms and brows

With her jutebox jewellery

she the mother succour

Never let it be said

that she never said

that some things are better

left unsaid