A poem

They chide me those dead poets!

British males

Corduroy crumpled reeking of  pipe smoke

twisting words like curlicues

of the finest shag from their

high street tobacconist, they insist

on being read

but being dead I can ignore them

and late at night

I might surprise one with a read perhaps

even a recitation to a screen

to prove my erudite personality,

maybe boost my profile’s popularity

I hear them..

Don’t fear the voices of the dead

they live between worlds,

where poetry and pipe smoke linger

all their future

is in the dread of an untouched page

the one they never made,

Dead British poets

I have a friend who knows you all

Every scrawl

he is erudite in the purest sense

we mended  our fences

sharing the view of the road ahead

when we both will nod

in deference to the dead in their stuffy

enclosures (sending no post

or literary review), friend now

It’s just me and you.

Chris

2025