The heatwaves that would have filled

my tubs and cones never came.

‘O sole mio’ falling flat as I drove

through my hard fought for patch

on the outskirts of Aldershot.

The Whitby Morrison will have to go,

it won’t fetch much, mouths to feed,

another on the way and barely enough

to stretch to a penny lick. The collapsed

dream of a gelato empire with parlours

of chrome and glass, has brought an arctic

coldness to my other half, nothing I do

or say will thaw her now, it would take

an ice pick to reach her heart.