Oh you brilliant broken thing,
Guard your dream
With a furious kind of self-love.
Cry yourself under the table or sink –
Best not think.
(For it’s June and you’re worried for winter.)
Fetch up your bits, those meandering bones –
Write your way,
Sing your way, weep your way home.
Skyward now, ragged one,
Keep to that dream,
Trampled and awkward as it may well be.
Nothing hurts like nothing – true, still
Hammering some manners onto the abyss.
Author of Monster-Proof Poetry out now with Eyewear Publications (above work is recent, done during lockdown and therefore not in this collection).