The poet of this afternoon died suddenly at end of night,
jostling to pen a word, yawning bile in the long
run-up to the creep of dawn pebble-dashing the curtains.
Knuckled under weight of forms, proof of income, applications
flung in free tote bags he cannot begin to classify,
he’d like to burn but who has fireplaces nowadays, so instead
he snatches at garbled predictive jottings made in ghostly glow,
leave no strand untwisted, no word untravelled,
Divine dictations long since ceased, words do not meet the ear
ready-formed like birdsong. It’s digging in the garden,
toiling in manure for a speck of solid rock.
Linking this up to my favourite poetic forum on the internet the dVerse Poets Pub, with their fortnightly Open Link Night.