Saturday, 22 August 2015

Modern Verse

Composed during a walk to the lake with our two daughters and Jack Russell terriers. August 2015, SW France.

It sometimes seems to me
That English verse
In modern hands of true felicity
May actually end up worse
Now rhyme and metre
Are head-butted from their perch
And music rare
Is not the poet’s search
How sweet the limpid songs
Of bards of old
The verse they now call free
Was dearly sold
For I have seen the emperor’s new clothes
And every stitch I reckon to be prose.