The poet stood
by the side of the road
in the rain.

Of course.

It had to be raining.

But let us move on.

The grass grew around
his scuffed shoes,
holes in the soles,
a hole in my soul,
ooh, that could be
kinda mournful,
kinda romantic ...

Crows nested
on his coat hanger shoulders.

"Mummy, mummy!
I'm scared!!"

"Don't worry honey,"
said the harried mother hurriedly,
took the child by the hand
and crossed the road
to the other side.

"It's just a poet,
best not look at him,
they're disturbing,
but generally,
they don't bite you
or accost you,
if you don't look.

That's the trick.

If you look at them,
they may just pounce on you,
waving bedraggled sheets of scribble,
and they dribble and foam
and froth at the mouth,
it's a thing with them,
something to do
with emotions."

"I don't like it, mummy ..."

Soon, both mother and child
are tiny figures, receding
romantically on the rugged
country lane and all that's left
is the poet.

Of course.

And again.