This

This after Jane Hirshfield

was once a poem of certainty with foundations of childhood memories, concrete proper nouns and scant adverbs. It sailed down the Eden River with Tom and his dad, saw a dead sheep tangled in the reeds; pulled ollies on its skateboard with best friend Geoff in the Summer of ’76 – scraped its knees on gravel and called them raspberries – took these medals with honour.

This poem was beautiful and wandered freely through time and space, an innocent observer to life, a reflection of corporeal in ether, a meditation on what was and what might be.

But then this poem stuttered, took a turn in the wrong direction – preferred to stay out drinking than get home for an early night. This poem grew sad and wondered why it didn’t feel like a Betjeman, Hughes or a Larkin, why it felt more like a Berryman or Plath. This poem feared being read, feared never being understood.

Now this poem is uncertain. It sits within walls, locked in under its own volition. It sprays itself with anti-bacterial spray until its words become blurred and indistinct. Until syllables become uncountable, until consonants mix into vowels, until ink runs from its paper, until this poem hasn’t been written at all.