Sunday, 18 April 2010

Sunday's Retreat

After his late Sunday breakfast with papers,
The poet is resting like a cat in the sun.
All the world is going to hell, and a single word
Buzzes at his inner ear, but what it is
He’s not quite clear. He has to close his eyes
And feel the heat pushing at thin lids
Insisting that he articulate, clearly.
Like a flower pollinated, it must be.

Instead, retreat sluices through the pores,
Immunity is offered and accepted.
The call for the uncaught word is ceased.
And, diminishing, he is taken, glad,
To complete the sentence of the day.
He is I and thou, traffic drone, and shadow.

Wynn Wheldon

2 comments:

  1. very nice. I love the 'single word' buzzing 'at his inner ear' and the final line is very cool as well.

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  2. Hi Okie - very kind, thank you. I logged on actually to mess around with the last line. i think i know what I am trying to get at but it isn't very clear. Really, this is a work in progress. BTW if you are keen on P G Wodehouse you ought to read my pal Robert McCrum's biography. First class.

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