The Poet

He writes the lyrics of his life
in sweet verse and brief vignettes,
on the grime upon the railway ledge
and on the silt and slime
along the rivers edge

His words he carves
on mud stained vans
or on the screen of flashing phones
etched onto the pale faces
of flat grey skimming stones

In ink distilled of pain he carves
on damp cold window pains
where it runs away in silent tears.
And on brass plates of early city doors
he wrote his story in the sweetest prose

On the smog of Friday mornings
or the diaphanous cloak of dew
In the frozen fur of crystal frost
He writes it all. (for you)
Where he knows it will be forever lost.


Couldn’t stay away 🙂

© Dave Kavanagh @


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