There are cracks so deep in Weaver’s Field
the farmer can push his arm in up to
his elbow. Even in the keepered woods,

laurel has wilted. Gnarly field maples
are almost leafless. Skeins of black smoke drift
from the field fires at Enham Alamein.

him coming home from work
in damp, sooty uniform,
and the alarm bell that rang
in my childhood home
whenever he was needed

Towering piles of cumulus sail north
like galleons. When it comes, it darkens
the down to an unfamiliar moorland brown.

With it the strong scent of ammonia
from sheep’s urine. Reanimated,
mingled with damp dust and baked grass.

From The rain has come, and suddenly the land looks (and smells) different.

On floated a buzzed Garbo,
a browned-out Garland.
Elvises of every era
groped for their towels.

Here walked a plausible Oprah.
In came an ayatollah. And there,
lanky in her tankini—a Cher.
If the whole idea is to go

out of the world as late
and as happy as possible,
you could do worse
than die on a megaliner.

You would have left knowing
how a crowd surrenders
when a man stands before
them as Frank Sinatra.

From Wish You Were Her, n+1.

From a walled garden and some shepherds’ huts,
a huge, tri-peaked white zeppelin would come
into view. Then Paul Hollywood would close in
across the lawn, his silver quiff cutting

the air like a fin. A crisp oxford shirt
meant to make his eyes pop—a velvety navy
just across the color wheel from his tan.
Mary dispensed praise prudently, as if

pressing a toffee into your palm. But
Paul Hollywood can entwine seven strands
of dough into an ornamental wreath
with the dexterity of a concert pianist.

The rest of the time, he will handle your
bread like airport security. He flips
it upside down, knocks on its bottom,
interrogates it with sausage fingers.

When he is done, he dusts his hands and sheaths
them in his denim carapace. Sometimes we
observed Paul from afar, smoking alone
near the meadows’ edge, pacing like a bull.

From Inside the world of “The Great British Bake Off”.