Late - Poem by Diane Hine
Chantelle remarked while sipping tea
she’d no idea where Pip could be –
perhaps the garden shed?
He might have gone spelunking to
ventriloquize in tongues with Hugh
the gnostic trogloped.
Or hosting Channel Tunnel ghosts
to channel boring puns instead.
He could be spooning pearls from grist
indulging gastromancy midst
a balmy oyster bed.
Or madly miming semaphore
to flag ’Lucia di Lammermoor’-
whatever makes him happy she said.
Or even tutting scuttlebutt
while phutting through Kolkata but
he’d better not be dead.
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