It rained a creeping
of lonely marmalade,
which hung, slick,
sticky in the air,
soft fruit pieces
slithering past
the juice, sluice,
sugar choking
the angel cake grey
as a devil may care
gasped and clawed,
bit, shit,
refused
not to stare
at the murder scene
where a sad lifebuoy lay,
a hammer’s throwaway line
prised, teased, peeled
from his candy skull shell
but forensics fired blanks,
so Orton came back,
to name the victim
Halliwell.