Monday, 18 October 2010


written so long ago, I didn’t even
know I was a poet,
my words fell like spray from a fountain
or flashes from a rocket,

like brats, they burst into sanctuaries
asleep and filled with incense,
to speak of youth and mortality.
And now my unread pages

lie scattered in dusty bookshops
where nobody even lifts them
to examine.  And yet, like expensive wines,
your time will come, my lines.

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