She speaks to me
from the screen
of poets
passion
and poetry
The backdrop
a bookshelf
a piano
a nobel man
I listen from my couch
on the bus
from my bed on a Sunday morning
Mesmerised by the poetic of the speaker
The sound of a passing train on its way to Adlestrop
where Edwards captured a moment of ease
But moments can turn in an instant
like Sexton
lost in the obliquity of bad poetry
***
church steeples
Is poetry lost
out the window of the bus in the rain?
If I am a poet am I in danger
like Silvia
of dying in darkness
in the shade of the yew tree?
For she cannot hear me
though I speak to the screen
of my love for poetry and a dream
The silent piano
a ventriloquist
rescues the poet
and her poetry from the fishhouses of gods sea
Yet I cannot believe in a god
who leaves the beggar I see out the window of the bus
to sleep in the rain alone
In the mill
I grind words for politicians
who make the beds of stone
for the beggar to sleep on in the rain
whilst they fatten the pockets
of the privileged and the rich
I board the bus covered in flour
that sticks to me like guilt
for my part in the grinding
But once on the bus
I must follow my heart
unless it is broken
Then I must lead it to mending
through words tied together with strings and feeling