365 poems piled on the living room floor
and the poet still writes. It is his way of
giving thanks, of celebrating – a sharing
of what was in the beginning an anxious
ask tho’ making little sense. Since then a
few caring souls have heeded his words
agreeably, thankfully easing the task.
There is a way to go; simple arithmetic
suggests at least 635 poems are free of
a tether and still to be gathered from air
they have weathered in; they’re in the
windrows of experience, the washrooms
and weigh-stations, the beer-halls and
backdoors – in endless corridors.
The journey thus far is a dream, a vision
visited in an instant and forever familiar,
a pillar propping up this poet’s visionary
trance, of winsome words drifting in reach
to be plucked and savoured like the ripe
peaches of a favoured childhood, tasted
forever and crafted in enigmatic verse.
© I.D. Carswell 2006