Tuesday, 01 September 2009




    What happened to them all,
    Those poets
    I used to drink in pubs with?
    Quarrel with?
    Even sit on committees with?    

    I hear their faint cries.
    They are  imprisoned
    Between the covers
    Of prize-winning biographies.    

    My television screen flickers
    With shadowy figures
    Who look a bit like them.    

    'But the voices are wrong,'
    I say to myself,
    'And so are the gestures.'    

    Then suddenly I'm seized
    By a great wind
    That whirls me away
    Towards a future
    That has no place for them.


This site was last updated 01-09-2009