Poetry is images in words
And sentences that coil around the heart
Poetry, like love, is called absurd
Yet does not pierce our being like a dart.
Our first language was song and not bare speech
A melody can move us and entrance
The politicians would be other beasts
If singing was their way to eminence.
In Westminster, the clock would chant, Amen
As silently the day’s work was undone
In the morning,it would sing, Begin
Penelope would weave her soul again.
The image may strike deep into our soul;
Make live the voice that sings us into whole
How my heart sings 