When I called on you
I saw a Wellington boot
lying in the road.
A kid’s Wellington
dropped from a passing push chair.
It was a fine day
with no chance of rain.
Later, when I left your house
the small boot was gone.
It was still sunny
but the wind had swung around.
I sometimes wonder
if there are signals,
small coded indications,
that I simply can’t
decipher or understand.
Perhaps we’re all like
lost boots in the street
waiting for our retrieval
when the wind swings round.
I completely cracked it yesterday.
Everyone I showed it to agreed.
The Director of Creative Writing
covered his mouth and ran from the room.
It even made my sceptical wife swoon.
It wasn’t just the best poem I’d written.
It was the best poem ever written.
An Aurora Borealis in your heart.
A Niagara word-fall gushing in your head;
the wild moon: there! – at the bottom of your bed.
I folded it up, put it in a tin,
buried it deep behind the compost patch
near where we interred the family cat.
No poet wants to see poetry like that.
When he said goodbye
near the holiday flats
and the wind flipped away
her Kiss-me-Quick hat
and he laughed that “No!
It hadn’t been ‘crap’!”
– he couldn’t tell then
that if he had snapped
her slim waist in two
his name was inked there
running all the way through.
Marc is a poet and musician from Devon. He’s been published in numerous magazine and web sites including Ink, Sweat and Tears; Otter; Stride; The Broadsheet; The Guardian Webpages; The Poetry Society Website and in anthologies from Ravenshead, Forward, OWF and Sentinel Presses.