🙂 That’s OK. How about this one…
Daed-traa
I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide
to mind me what my poetry’s for.
It has its ventricles, just like us –
pumping brine, like bull’s blood, a syrupy flow.
It has its theatre –
hushed and plush.
It has its Little Shop of Horrors.
It has its crossed and dotted monsters.
It has its cross-eyed beetling Lear.
It has its billowing Monroe.
I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide
to mind me what my poetry’s for.
For monks, it has barnacles
to sweep broth as it flows, with fans,
grooming every cubic millimetre.
It has its ebb, the easy heft of wrack from rock,
like plastered, feverish locks of hair.
It has its flodd,
It has its welling god
with puddled, podgy face and jaw.
It has its holy hiccup.
Its minute’s silence
daed-traa.
I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide
to mind me what my poetry’s for.