First published in April 2023

Fragile as cobwebs, erratic
as butterflies,
poems glimmer in our heads
like glow-worms on a hedge.
One blink
and we'll lose them.
Getting them safely to the
is another story. It's like
a runaway horse

I wonder if they can detect
poems bubbling
in our brains as we pass
through the customs hall. That
might explain
the officious woman flicking
through my poetry books as if
to empty them
of subversive ideas. Maybe
she was right to be so
deeply suspicious

Poets have a way of starting
taking the piss out of
politicians, baring emotions
best left alone.
We should carry a public
health warning. We watch
what people say,
gather up their words and
phrases with the compulsion
of kleptomaniacs

Living with us presents its
own problems.
We are a dangerous breed,
and our nearest and dearest
must learn
to guard their tongues.
We are fragile and erratic,
and poems glow
from our heads like fall-out.
In future poets should use
the red channel