The poet’s birthday today; I must ask whether
you mind me claiming to be a writer of verse,
do you – or do you keep counsel silently?
For me it is another year and a new poem to
celebrate – for you the creation is soundless,
like the anonymous verse I am now making
I’m used to silence – nothing’s more profound
than purity of echoes resounding in a vacuum
busy enclosing just your words and yourself
The words sing to me – seems bizarre of bare
bones silence and a voice reciting aloud, no
other ears are tuned to my mind’s workings
But when I read them aloud I view your eyes
light up like stars; it is an expression of infinite
pleasure and pays magical compliments
I see my poetry there; why your eyes mirror it
so graphically is ambiguous to say the least,
but in truth I know I’ll always be pleased
© 6 September 2013, I. D. Carswell
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