Having cast his pearls into a feeding bowl
the poet falls on torrid times, the whorls of
sonnets twirled in filigrees of fragrant sense
don’t make amends; these swine will eat the
the rotten ends before they know it’s heady
scent he thinks – before they even raise their
rheumy eyes – years for sure beyond a use-by
date essential to define a lack nourishment.
My friends he cries, my loving friends who need
a guide, I cannot succour you. I’ve tried, Lord
knows I tried. Something in you died – or never
grew; the babe in arms eschewed as father of
the man was left alone to wither on the vine –
and soured the wine.
© 2 November 2007, I. D. Carswell