The Owl Lives Another Year. 

 

 

This poem should not be a diary entry it should not be about how I am waiting to go to therapy.

It should not be about how the noisy exhaust pipes of boy racers disturb me to my marrow each time they fly up the street.

 

It should not be about how my thoughts race uncontrollably through my body as a sickness.

It should not be about how I love my children in a way that scares me.

It should not be about how I stare backwards with wonder and horror forgetting so much laughter along the way.

It should not be about paranoia against a backdrop of savagery.

It should not be about benefit cuts and murder.

But rather the undefinable joy that costs nothing that can be found here.

The thrill of creating something so insignificant yet so real.

The extravagance of knowledge, of knowing, of seeking out. Then sleeping.

It should be about poets for hire throwing their words to the wind.

Hot salty chips covered in curry sauce.

The hovering silhouette of a kestrel.

A new pamphlet by our favourite Cambridge fellow.

 

It should not get smothered in sentimental attachment or mired in dystopian gloom.

 

But it does.