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Saturday, 2 May 2020


It’s no good. 
I just can’t write
about flowers. 

In the park
my wife says to me
“look at those beautiful bluebells,
you should write
a poem about them.”

I tell her
that it’s just no good
however hard I try
that Wordsworth shit
refuses to capture my soul;

I need to write
about dirt and grime
and loneliness and real people
and the grit of their lives.

It was then
that I looked into her eyes
and saw the tiny bluebells of her pupils
surrounded by
moats of brown. 

“Let’s go home”,
I upped and said. 
“I just can’t write
about flowers.”

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