Watershed (2010)

That weekend the village filled with poets,

words fell like rain on the pavements

appearing overnight,

inundating the market square,

submerged under half rhymes

and seeping round well constructed sonnets.

By Sunday they were everywhere.


Though hard to spot at first

with practice you got the hang;

long and short, but mostly grey,

women – older and longing for love, in

improbable but quite erotic ways,

men – some dishevelled others smart.

Appearance alone no way to set them apart.


So I listened,

felt the rhythm

marvelled at metre and

compelling spoken verse

immersed myself in meaning

and overwhelming floods of metaphor.


They’d gone by Monday morning

absorbed into the working week,

evaporating from the flagstones

not even leaving a stain.

But like old bones revealed by a sudden flash flood

something new had been exposed

and it was never quite the same again.

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