Even before the poem was born
it had a provisional name –
whether it was a boy or a girl poem,
simple or gifted, wild or tame.
It was to be called ‘Poem’ –
nothing but the best for my newest birthing.
.
Anyway, Poem was born,
from my soul was torn,
arriving, screaming silently,
into the void.
.
Will Poem grow to be a leader of tribes,
a favourite of scribes,
or just a series of words
vaguely affirming the sanctity of birds.
.
We wait and see;
what will be…
will…
be.
Graeme Sandford 