The life of a modern poet

I am sure I am supposed

To lol like a lizard

On a sunstone

Soaking up the world

Daubing at the world

Precisely, but making it look lazy

A tounge like a wet paint brush

Working quickly, effortlessly


On the canvas

In your mindvoice

I am sure I am supposed

To wander fens

At first light until dawn again

And write of dragonfly

Secretly in the ferns

Building empires

Of low sun

I imagine it is expected

That I would wrap about me

Moth eaten tweed

Embroidered with bailer twine

And ramble north Wales

Rain lashed

Ruddy faced

Back to a cob hovel

And a pot of beans

Or under a willow tree

At midsummer

With a HB

woozy with cider

Apart from the world

Just watching

But far from these romantic notions

I am a regular woman

I make rise groggily and shower

In my brick terrace

I drink tea exhausted.

And write mainly on the loo

Or I steal a fragment of a moment

In Tescos car park

Or at my desk

After driving


Pretending to take notes in meetings

I binge watch tv

I own no oil lamps

I eat cheap white bread

I fail and falter

I am made of flesh

Mere mortal

I write only with my thumbs

Perhaps it shows

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