I Am Writing More Than I Have

I Deeply Adored My Mum. She Was An Extraordinary Person, Even For The Prejudice I'm Likely To Have. She Was Beautiful, Amusing, A Tremendous Elaborator Of Things Into Comic Proportions And Extravagant In Her Imagination.

Honor The Miraculousness Of The Ordinary.

I Get Up At 5.30am, Sluice Myself And Have Two Weetabix And Some Mint Tea, Before Starting To Write By 6am.

I Shall Try To Write A Poem That Is About The Moment But Doesn't Betray Things That Are True To Me As A Poet.

Each Sudden Gust Of Light Explains Itself As Flames, But Neither They, Nor Even Bombs Redoubled On The Hills Tonight Can Quite Include Me In Their Fear.