The Spell

I catch you reading a paper, The Guardian or Observer. Not the FT, as its clearly not yellow but it could be The Times or The Telegraph, not the Sporting Post though, words are split into paragraphs not lists, although it’s difficult to tell from this distance. I don’t really know you at all. You are a species caught by my spiderlike eyes. Do you saddle soap your wife’s butt? Defecate on your children’s towels and piss in babies bottle? This poem is called The Spell.


Hunting silver all around, not silver at all

Silver writing on dimpled spines, not writing at all

Confirmation gifts all, not really gifts at all

Wizened crone hooks her finger at you, not really old at all

Banker with blue eyes ‘gets’ the blues, not really cold at all

Reflections mirror your actions, not really a stare at all

Ted Hughes’ poems say nothing, not a wifebeater at all

I know me, not a poet at all

I know meaning, no meaning at all

Words are my tools and reaction, not an explanation at all

You are my goal and redemption, and not a care at all.

Thank you for reading, for no thanks at all.

A. Watkins 2017

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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