Hold my hand while we jump off this cliff

‘Let’s jump off this cliff – it’ll be fun! A right laugh!’
urged all the people (well, I mean just over half
of those who had bothered to speak up at all).
I peered down at the rocks; it was a long way to fall.

I said, ‘This cliff’s more than three hundred feet high
and my doctor tells me if I jump I will die.’
‘Cliff-jumping’s fine!’ they said. ‘Don’t trust doctors, trust us!
We read all about it on the side of a bus.’

Worried, I met up with my local MP.
I shared my concerns. He was forced to agree:
‘Why the rocks below would smash you to bits!
Where did you get this idea of jumping off cliffs?’

‘It was the will of some of the people,’ I said
and his expression changed to another instead.
‘I think,’ he revised, ‘you’re being melodramatic.
The problem is you. You’re undemocratic.’

On the clifftop, we waited. In silence we stood.
Then a voice: ‘Remind me, why is cliff-jumping good?’
But we looked down at our shoes, baffled and stumped.
Then, out of embarrassment, we held hands and jumped.


Your 2017 Haiku Horoscopes


Trousers start to sag
as your pockets bulge with coins.
A year of much change.


You join the circus.
Retrain as tightrope walker.
Good work-life balance.


You leave the city
to become a sheep shearer.
New year, a new ewe.


On Twitter you find
your new haiku horoscope.
It tells you little.


You hate your star sign.
Disgruntled, you convert to


Mars enters the sphere
of concupiscent Venus.
Not sure what that means.


The year drifts past you
in TV shows and hot food.
Netflix and chilli.


You date all your cheques
with the year twenty sixteen
until November.


You stare at your phone,
look up briefly in July,
then stare at your phone


At last you make it!
That flat pack IKEA desk
from their Croydon store.


You decide to stop
thinking about anagrams
and sort out your file.


Year of good fortune.
Not once do you encounter
Jeremy Clarkson.