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by Brian Bilston
Check your doors are chained and padlocked.
Keep your hatches battened down.
Lock up your jewellery and your whiskey.
There are poets in the town.
They’re kicking cantos down the high street.
They’re crooning in the chip shop queue.
They’re selling cinquains on street corners.
They’ve sprayed the bus stops with haiku.
Do not venture out past midnight.
Stay in bed. Don’t make a sound.
Clutch crucifix and garlic.
There are poets in the town.
They’re soliloquising down the precinct.
They’re expounding on the tram, as well.
They’re slipping sonnets into handbags.
They’re lacing drinks with villanelles.
If one’s near, approach with caution.
Lend them not a single pound.
Walk in pairs. Stick to the footpaths.
There are poets in the town.
They’ll say one thing and mean another;
they’ll lie to you; they’ll tell the truth;
they’ll coax you in with words of honey;
they’ll comfort you, console, seduce;
they’ll break your heart or make it leap;
they’ll leave you battered, soothed, or warmed
then leave your town in search of others.
Please take care. You have been warned.
From Days Like These, London: Picador, 2022, pages 388–389.
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