(inspired by seeing a ‘page three’ topless model on a piece of newspaper floating next to a river)

Yesterday when out walking
I saw a pair of tits.

This is not a double entendre.

Yes, whilst out walking yesterday
a couple of tits flew by.
Not the blue or bearded kind

but the pink and perkily nippled.

Two tits flitting
about near the river.

Two snapped paps
flapping wings
in the wind.

They landed and I took a photo
of the photo. I wondered,
would they sing?

But the tits of course
were voiceless, the girl who
owned them nameless, the body
they belonged to headless
thanks to a papery crease.

Not that that mattered, of course.

Despite their lack of identity
the tits seemed happy, excited.
Their look was up-for-it
and very, very playful.

But soon they flew up from the grass
and continued on their journey,
wild and strong and free,

so glad they weren’t wrapping
fish and chips, or some other

menial task.

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.