The English Poet

The English Poet takes his tea
Upon his cushioned chair.
Despite this boredom mews its case
Of which he is aware.
It pokes and prods him day and night
Through layers silky thick.
It slouches ‘hind him shadow-like
Unfed. Away the hours tick.

One two three four! Open the door!
The children flee in glee.
As they grow up, all fit and young,
The greatest honour will re-father them:
Open the door to war!

Shattered. The poet clenches his heart
In fear, but not in hope.The blood seeps
Slyly from between his fingers
And spills itself upon his page.
The gore, necessary and yet not done justice,
Shocking, new,
Real.

Inspiration’s avalanche has gouged its course.