Will it add value, or make it more saleable?

Were I to acquire

A stuffed pike, 

Would it add value,

If I put it

In the downstairs loo?

Is it the sort of thing people like? 

Would it make people aspire,

To a certain lifestyle,

Or put people off, 

Because it’s vile? 

I don’t mean actually in the bog,

Of course,

I mean on top of the chiffonier,

To hide a scratch in the veneer.

Would people think 

I’m a huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ toff,

All about horse,

And dog,

Or a liar?

Would it distract from the chip in the tile,

Above the sink?

What about a crystal chandelier,

Or two,

Are they more tarty than arty?

Or a pair of fauteuils, Louis Quinze or Seize,

Either side of the fire,

Would that make it seem like a des. res.?

Or should one go the whole hog,

A gilt salon suite,

Would it go with a club fender?

Would that show

I was the right kind of vendor?

Someone cultured, in the know?

Would such things complete

The impression

That this is a home of good taste,

And each possession

Treasured, inherited, long ago?

And could I then sell with Inigo? 

 

In The Tedium of a Metric Afternoon

 

I had the leisure,

To measure for pleasure,

The nature of an afternoon,

Of warm and scented, honeyed June,

When all was peace, yet nothing still,

To calculate the sublime,

In time and also in ‘mil’.

 

I felt the need, when I heard

The song of a garden bird,

There was nothing to gain

By use of the word,

And so reduced it to the absurd,

And measured it’s voice

And the thrill of its trill

With great precision and pain.

 

And afterwards knew,

That nothing was true,

Which existed in fragments alone,

But on a hunch

After eating lunch,

It occurred,

That I understood,

At the level of instinct and bone,

A truth that pertained in both garden and wood:

Beauty and flowers and finches,

Should always be measured in inches.