after burying deep some promising fine bone
as hostage to the future,
and with the long-lunged sigh
of those who know they could not have done better,
lays him on the hearth (with nose too near the falling coal)
to pass the sleep of a blissful clear conscience
broken only by the twitchy dream of chasing rabbits
(and like humans, does he never quite catch them before he wakes?
we’ll never know…)
so the poet closes the notebook, switches off the PC,
and with the clear conscience of one
who knows that his poetry may not be all that good –
but that he couldn’t have done better –
retires to bed, satisfied, content.
If bliss is then the emptied mind
the Muse of Poetry is kind.