William, It Was Really Nothing

The young pretender has cocked his hat
towards Westmorland. Picture the great bard,
mid-breakfast, letter in hand,
eyes on stalks and jaw hanging loose,
a loaded knife-blade of Dorothy’s damson preserve
stalled between lidded porcelain jam-pot and toast,
blood-scabs of red sealing wax crumbed
on the cloud-white tablecloth.

(Thinks: if Paul Pogba cost eighty-nine million plus,
what am I worth?). Except

what glittered like charmed finches over Haworth Church
drifts as rain across Scafell Pike. No reply:
the parsonage clock patrols the night-shift
in jailors’ boots. Outside the moors play dead.



Self Portrait
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