The heatwaves that would have filled
my tubs and cones never came.
‘O sole mio’ falling flat as I drove
through my hard fought for patch
on the outskirts of Aldershot.
The Whitby Morrison will have to go,
it won’t fetch much, mouths to feed,
another on the way and barely enough
to stretch to a penny lick. The collapsed
dream of a gelato empire with parlours
of chrome and glass, has brought an arctic
coldness to my other half, nothing I do
or say will thaw her now, it would take
an ice pick to reach her heart.
