Jammie Dodgers

Not the virtuous digestive
or curlicue embossed custard cream
or Communion taste of a pink wafer,
but Jammie Dodgers,

the ones to return torchlit lights-out,
lidos, comic swaps, reels of caps going off
as on Wild West horses disguised as bikes

we freewheeled through a world
holding nothing worse than boiled cabbage,
a sum gone wrong, the black and white on the blink.

Where to offer the last of these sticky hearts
sealed a new best friendship, bestowed
a sort of sainthood, as you martyred yourself
with a Garibaldi’s dead fly mash.

© Stephen Bone


It took up an entire wall,
smudged clusters
of purple and orange
streaked with drips of acid yellow.

A throwback to tie-dyes,
lava lamp blobs,
the psychedelia of a sixties’ trip.

‘Breathtaking,’ you said, going on to read out –
‘The herpes virus under an electron microscope.’

© Stephen Bone