then the poets retire to the bar; pints
appear and, in the gloom, the whole wide world
is put to rights (at least in their own minds).
That bastard's been bought up by Bloodaxe Books
and so-and-so's new volume is vile! Yes, sonnets
are back, the money's no good, and should
they have just one more drink? And The Scotsman,
they're sure, has gone down the pan; yes, peanuts
are fine, how's your glass? And as the clock ticks
on and on, a woman sits and stares. 'See
you,' she cries, Greek-chorus-like: 'You all talk shit.'
It's late and it's cold, there are hills to climb;
through moonlit streets, the poets sway, in time.
First published in '14' magazine,
then in Northwords Now
and in Come Close And Listen
(Greenwich Exchange).
*
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