I’ve always been quite interested in poetry
But I don’t think it’s all that bothered with me.
Nonetheless, I must confess
There’s words about, and whilst I’m out
I rhyme in my bonce to a rapt audience
Of one.
Just me.
I don’t work in the town where I live these days
So Arriva’s my limo; it’s an hour each way
On the bus. That’s fine, cause most
Journeys just last for a single podcast:
Ron Burgundy or Atletico Mince
Or so on.
They’re free.
Daftly, sometimes I forget to juice up my phone
So the battery’s dead and the travel drears long.
So I try to spend the time
Staring out the windows at
Shropshire and grass and lambs and stuff.
It’s fun.
It’s free.
Quite near Bicton there’s a little spread
Of trees: you might call it a wood-wide web
And feel good. Well, you would
If poetry liked you and these things inspired you.
There might be a book in it. Ay, and people do
Publish.
Just not me.
In that small copse - just a line of trees, really –
Is my all time, forever, and favourite tree.
Well, it’s two. They stand, too
In a particularly lovely and difficult way
That makes me smile. The others just sway
Alone.
When it’s windy.
The trunks stand apart, but their branches reach out
And embrace with such loveliness it spears my heart.
Rooted in soil, apart but whole,
Like nothing could keep them from holding hands
Like no-one could keep them away, so they stand
Together.
It’s lovely.
I always thought one day I’d write a poem
Something lyrical. Resonant. Beautiful, even.
But I don’t think I can.
Because justice won’t be done. And like I say,
I’m interested in poetry. But it’s not
Bothered
With me.
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