Can poetry lift the spirit, can it bear

the cross of the mere mundane

to elevate the heart

with so little to gain?

Can poetry inform the unwilling mind

or must it slink unannounced

out of sight of the spiritually blind?

With its subtlety of flavour

will it ever find universal favour,

or will it only ever survive in fiery claims

of national pride in a blunted way

with its chipped out phrases that make the case

for death's dismay in rallying cries

at the end of that same old bitter day?