By Marc Carver

 

There is no passion

no joy

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

a trick.

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

Unlike mine

mine are always obvious to everybody

as

I stand here writing in the rain

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