Poetry

The poetry’s the living creature
That’s nourished by response
She’s timid when you reach her
And ripens when you haunt
Her hiding place. If you besiege her
She’ll leave seclusion and acquire features
Of splendid fairy they vaunt
Of taste and delicacy with admixture
Of fear of the unknown.
But if it happens that the contact breaches
She’ll starve to death in wildwood ditches.