To read this you have to have the right kind of eye
not snake or cat but wide and wondering
filled with awe and wonder, able to see possibilities;
or, just maybe, a bucket full of hope.
I am no longer any good at hope or wishing
because not even the thirteenth fairy
could have thought of anything worse;
that’s why I have such sympathy with Prometheus;
a cursed chap but at least he knew his crime,
unlike me.

Every day I am faced with blankness
ellusive words do not come
they want something more from me.
Ideas moulder before I realise them
like dreams wasted when mother opened the curtains.
She was one to avoid sentimentality
so easily entered when one is weak and ignorant.

There are days when I am fizzing like a Catherine Wheel
what I want is literary fecundity; a glorious August
with ripeness hanging down too heavy for its branches;
and what doesn't fall on its own
is simply asking for a little tap, tap,
and then is chosen.
Oh, to be chosen.

Today I had trouble at the market, choosing fish for dinner,
until a friend told me this secret.
It's the eyes. You pick the ones with the prettiest eyes.