Mum assumed that all poetry rhymed
Why wouldn’t she? That’s what it had done in school
Rows of them chanting Wordsworth
Or Walter de la Mare. I didn’t know this at the time
But Walter was born in Charlton, where
I lived briefly, above a Bookmaker, on a corner
Until we were overwhelmed by local heroin dealers
There’s a poem he wrote that Larkin liked
About a stranger, half-hidden in a graveyard
About a stranger, half-hidden in a graveyard
It’s dusk and brooding. I suppose the stranger
Is death. What else might you expect?
Is death. What else might you expect?
Mum’s husband, Wilf, my Dad
Had no opinion regarding poetry
What it could or couldn’t say
What it could or couldn’t say
How it was made
What it should or shouldn’t do
Measure. Mark. Or cut
Steven Taylor
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