the best poems rattle
like a tin can down an empty street
they hang from lamp-posts in the dark
heads shaven
tar holding feathers
from some exotic bird

the best poems hitch a ride home
at 2 a.m.
belly full of beer
heel missing from one shoe
and not aware they are limping
then they sit up til dawn
in a dim kitchen with a stove full of ash
and a saucer full of butts

the best poems grow in a swamp
and never leave
they live and die there
amidst the sludge and marigolds
the cotton grass sedge and meadowsweet
making the ruts of logging trucks look pretty

the best poems
are empty ships riding high on the horizon
melding into a bank of rain
they are over-looked
never written
never forgotten
like the sex that ends childhood

Selected byLawrence George
Image credit:Johannes Plenio

Cameron McClure doesn’t exist. He is the pen-name for a  permanently retired civil servant who lives in Northern Ireland and likes nothing better than competitive banter over a pint or two. He believes it will all come right on the night because he’s happier that way and no-one has yet proved him wrong though a lot of well-meaning people try to for some reason.