Island kingdoms of mountainous blue synthetic and plastic bags, bedded down between gravestones and Frankenstein’s mother.
Here behind the church this dozing landscape undulates in miniature – too small for adventurers to scale.
I wouldn’t have come this way if I’d known. Don’t want to wake them.
One sniff, two – too fast he’s upon them, but I manage to pull him away.
The middle mountain erupts bolt up.
Tall she sits, sporting sleeping bag flat cap and cloak. Her sight sets me to attention, while hidden under fibrous mountainside her wagginess sends tectonic ripples into the valley below.
But then she sees mine. Her landscape stills. She speaks her warning growl rich and firm.
His tail drops. We step back.
She is Queen. Her domain of faithful mankind around her foothills, sleeping still. Loved. Cared for.
We’ve intruded too much. Time to go.
(St Peter’s Church in Bournemouth. Round the back near the grave of author Mary Shelley).