Sun shining half-heartedly backwards into a sulky sky;
you may come upon me, lost in
my beard,
drifting
oarless in the lagoon, surrounded
by trees
drooping listlessly into the water.
There
may be a herring gull perched on my head
scanning
the shore with avaricious intent
and
perhaps a verse
of poetry written to
my memory,
in
chalk, on the side of the boat:
‘He
was a poet of meagre talent,
verbiage
yes, rhyme
he hadn’t.
Could
pick an image, lacked rhythm;
just
didn’t have it in ‘im.’
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