Poetry Is

Poetry is
Yesterdays dream,
The Christmas toy forgotten,
The strands of light unravelled
In the coldness of winter.
And the soul fades
In the backlight
Of the WAP phone and palm pilot.

Poetry is
A dismal grave
Lost in the shadow
Of Eleanor Rigby
And Father Mackenzie,
Floundering
At the back end of the chart,
Drowning in the wake
Of boy bands and girl power

Poetry is
Clackers and shell suits,
Skate boards and hula hoops,
And quaint little trinkets,
Made out of cheap plastic
In a seaside gift shop.

Poetry is
Shocking pink flares,
Shoulder pads and frills,
Velvet suits and paisley.
Poetry is
The old brown.

And,
As ever,
The world moves on.