Poets
What are they like
these scholars of the cockshut light
elucubrating late
into the wee small, urgent hours?
See how they write one word
and then another, then another
then cross them out for ever.
(They’re shy, you understand,
of showing you their workings.)
Their hearts are soft
and purple as bruised damsons.
They’ve seen how dust
accumulates on nettles
know thirteen ways
of looking at the rain.
They half remember Mandelbrot
the name
as they spin the fractal beauty
of a barbicel upon a blackbird’s wing.
Annie Fisher
If
you have any comments on this poem, Annie Fisher
would be pleased to hear from you.
