Poetry is not stuck to a page,
Inert and lifeless;
Faded beauty
Like a collection of butterflies.

Poetry is busy.

It is everywhere,
Sat on the train when you buy your ticket,
Watching the countryside pass.
In the driving sleet when you duck out for a cigarette,
Smoking along with you, grim smile set firm.
Dozing nearby in a park during a sunny afternoon,
Snoring with every sign of enjoyment.

It sparks in the air after a lover’s quarrel and
Smiles at them, curled up,
After the resolution.
Poetry does demand not your attention.
It knows its own mind,
Likes its own company.
Though it will always be there, patient as seas
When you seek it out.

Poetry is not stuck to a page,
It is too busy.
It sleeps there, after a day out in the world.


Photograph by Ryan McGuire

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