If you have ever wondered what life would look like with a poet, take me as an example.
You can count on a walk along the Victoria Road and across the golf course to the lighthouse,
where you have a chance to spot a flock of house sparrows along the way and, if you are lucky,
even a curious fox, but not on a holiday in Sicily or a weekend in Málaga. I will also be more
inclined to write you a verse or two than a cheque, and if I happen to remember your birthday,
you will get Camus rather than Versace, likely purchased as a gift aid at Oxfam on Back Wynd.
Of course, evenings on the sofa with a book or a black-and-white film can be taken for granted.
Perhaps none of that has anything to do with poetry and is just me being, well, me. No wonder
I spend my days in solitude.
hidden pilcrow 