From The First Chronicle Of Ur
Under the ruckus of morning, with
a shovel stumping the hard earth,
cigarette cocked in mouth, the sun
a bugle in between the trees,
Abraham loots the land’s manuscript
for evidence of fidelity.
His one son is straddled
on a brambled palliasse, waiting
for Farmer God to call in, whistling.
Last week he borrowed a tractor
and rustled up cheese, apples,
a wholemeal roll, and a dead dollop
of Branston. No lettuce. There is
no lettuce in Genesis. When the scribes
embellished the story, they had
no room for salad vegetables at all.
In the thicket, a marinaded ram
awaits the arrival of the prophets
with the tongs and spatula, and charcoal
they’ve heisted from an open-all-hours
petrol station. One of them, confused,
has swiped some myrrh. Their camels
are waiting in the next reel, while
Abraham, a bedouin with attitude,
searches in vain for some edible spud
in his council allotment.