Tuesday, September 13, 2011


What becomes
Of all the fragments, imagery,
Witticisms, bon mots,
Which never make it
To the final page?

Follow this path,
Down to the beach
And if you search,
You will find some,
Carelessly dropped on all sides,
Clinging to the marram,
Sliding away beneath your bare feet,
Dervishing in the distance,
Where the skeletal silhouette
Of a wrecked poem juts

You will discover them gritty
Under your tongue and teeth,
In your cheese sandwich,
Filling every pocket, fold,
Shaken out of your hair,
Mocking you from the car boot.

Be warned -
Where lost ideas abound,
Most surely lowly scavengers are found.

Watch that run down poet, word prospector
Trawl the bay with shiny metaphor detector,
Desperate for the tell-tale ping,
The signal that the King’s lost ring
Lies just a trowel’s depth away.
Not the tenth easy open end, another fruitless day.

Spare us the sight of redundant Wapping hack,
Mounted proud on JCB’s bucking back,
Building a mighty heap of sand,
Ready for his slovenly hand
To fashion a mighty castle in the air,
So the gullible might gawp and stare,
Wonder what he’ll conjure next
After the battlements, cans, Castlemaine XXXX.

It is a mercy
That the wind and waves,
Not knowing who or what we are,
What we have achieved or,
What wonders we have seen,
Combine come end of day
To scour the ravaged mindscape clean.

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