Revenge on the poet

I won’t speak of the din of coffee spoons
That measured your life in verse
The foreign field that holds your bones
Is just some more tilled earth

I know you are gone
I will live on

I do not say If the world may turn
The clock may chime and still tell the time
In the world that I made
Without your rhymes

Now you are gone
I will live on

Daffodils will bloom in spring
Bending and swaying in the breeze
I don’t care what the daffodils sing
You can’t hear them, there’s a thing

So you’ve gone
I will live on

I‘ll be waving not drowning
In my words as they swim
Toward the page that I make
With a bawdy song not a hymn

With a song in my heart
I will live on

I’ll wear purple and red
Drink gin on my own
In Soho, and then to bed
With no-one to moan

At last you have gone
Now, I will live on.

Avril Scott


The Rich Man's Tree

It was an oak, a majestic oak
Growing strong and tall
Its canopy symmetrical and green
Set in a smooth parkland
Protected from depredation and vandals
From the encroachment of undergrowth and parasite
Just in the spring a sprinkling of bluebells
Allowed to flourish in the dappled light
Cast by an incomplete foliage

In a life of privilege the mighty oak
Succeeds as a perfect specimen might
Unlike the less fortunate seeded in scrubby wood
Struggling for light and space
With faster growing competition
Or on the exposed open scree sculpted by wind,
Clinging to chalky cliffs, leaning toward shelter
Twisted, diseased, but stubbornly surviving
Not grand but magnificent in themselves

Avril Scott, 2009

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