He is the feel of a brown suede boot
laced up with folk songs and wine.
He holds all my laughter in little jars of pickled time.
His voice is the harbour where I moor my boat,
where footprints fan out in grains of sand.
All tagged poet
Tiredness is something worn on the head
Tiredness is something worn on the head,
the never-ending wrap
of selfish fog,
it renders you blind,
hangs, with limp hostility around the brain,
dampens the synapses,
mutes the mind.