(big fan of Irvine Welsh) drops into a doze.
Prunella is planning a life of Larry
Olivier but has problems with her prose.
'Ye cannae beat Burns, if ye ask me,' states
wee Tam (unasked). 'I've no time for rhyme, drawls
languid Dolores. 'Deep feeling negates
the need for form,' she purrs, deep in her shawls.
I smile, agree, and introduce the nuts
and bolts of verse, of plot, of dialogue;
and Hadrian's haiku needs a few cuts,
and I don't know a good rhyme for hedgehog.
But, later, slipping homewards in the train
a harp sings soft, unfingered, in my brain.
I was inspired to write this in 1990 whilst Writer in Residence in Stirling Library.
I have, of course, never encountered anyone who remotely resembles any of the characters in the poem.
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