The thick coat I wear is Irish tweed and
bears a poet’s pocket, a deep vessel
for the rescue of snippets: phrases, dreams,
memories, ideas and inspirations,
The coat is soft charcoal grey and crossed with
blackened herring bones, quite long and belted,
woollen, warm and wide but no-one can tell
how very safe and snug I am inside
its tailored sanctuary or understand
my need for its constancy as I go
on my daily round.
Today, another swiftly passing day
of no merit, I had eavesdropped; something
overheard stilled me into silence. I
disliked its nuance, I saved its essence,
wrapped most of it up in sorrow and threw
the rest away.
I may seem calm but only I can feel,
as I walk, that my tread upon the stair
is aggressive, frustrated by cause of
my fear for the fragility of a
world which has lost all of its subtlety.
Beseiged now by its trappings I find myself
miscast till I am dizzy with fear that
I may topple. But my poet’s pocket
of words are close, they guide me away from
the edge of the abyss to a place of
recluse where I can write, safe once more in
my withdrawing room.