Busy elsewhering today, so I shall post a piece from the past for you. I like to reread sone of my older works as I have usually forgotten them – hence the message in this piece is quite apt. Graeme:)
Poets die in hot cars;
While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midnight sun
Lacking fluid and needing the shadow
Of Autum-te-dum leaves.
The sweat of a writer’s brow trickles between lashes
And splashes of colour lighten up an otherwise dull shade of grey.
Old tomes lie, unread, unnoticed and largely unwanted
when minute devices carry their weight lightly
Politely giving up their words at the press of a button
Although some would think of Shakespeare as Lamb dressed up like Milton.
Or Brie compared to Stilton.
Poems die in a bright non-blaze of apathy
Lounging in cupboards and drawers; spouting off about charges and wars
When all the people want is a quick laugh
Without too much bother
“Brother, can you spare the time to read a book?”
And so it goes
Where it will end
The written word is fading…
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