On a winter’s night I wrote this poem for Wen Ting Yun
Cursing myself, scrabbling for a poem,
composing it by lamplight.
Awake all night, afraid of climbing
under my cold quilt.
At dawn the yard frets
with the rustle of restless leaves,
sheer window curtains catch
the last of the fading moon.
Shit happens.
I think now I’ve found fulfilment.
Success follows failure follows what?
There’s a third way forward.
Roosting each night, never to settle
where home-trees grow
Dusk-sparrows twitter forever
flapping round the forest.
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