Mood Of A Season

Why leap out of bed at midnight
to save a line from dissolving before dawn
when the heartland of poetry is oblivion?

Millions of invisible poets
are leaping out of warm beds,
they pass like a cloud's shadow.

Leaping for the distilled mood of a season
not this occasion or that
not expecting to stop a tank.

But how many must be the ways:
unbottling the moonshine
laid down by a poet.

Let the odds be a million to one
from heron-wardened hidden courses
through country floodplains pulsing

rare spirits will ever make the great river
populated by dabblers and ferrymen
and the houses of a nation set around.

So let them all drink to this: the poem 
does stop tanks in their tracks 
a million times over, just give the word. 


◄ Between The Ages A Thoroughfare

Words for 'Thaxted' ►


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Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh

Sun 19th Mar 2023 14:51

Oblivion Adam? Nah Nah Nah.
I'm famous for fifteen minutes inside my head; that's enough for me.😊

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Stephen Gospage

Sun 19th Mar 2023 14:40

I have sometimes jumped out of bed to scribble down a line or two, Adam. Perhaps it is a fear of oblivion. Really enjoyed this poem.

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