By Marc Carver
There is no passion
no soft music in the night.
It has all gone
I have no idea where it went
perhaps it was never there
all an illusion
The air tastes of ash and I thought I had a Wordsworth poem right
where they had it wrong
but it is impossible to get a Wordsworth poem wrong.
It always means different things to different people
mine are always obvious to everybody
I stand here writing in the rain