I liked to think I knew something special that night:
the poet, the woman, with quiet voice
and soft self-assurance,
reading to us, of sex; love; lust and family ties.
Assonance was an adjective dancing the air that night,
in the museum. Sounds dropped with pinprick quietude
& the ache of wanting more;
left a whole crowd of unknowns; knowing what they
wanted-
to be the vowel on her tongue, that touched the glass
she drank from; praising Pennine water for its clarity.
paper reams and notes she held delicately
unbearable aches would bleed only words.
Longing to be the lectern on which she stood, to hold a foot;
a sole, the arch of her.
Daydreams in the auditorium, I drowned in her mouth
taking every verb and noun; bite after bite.
Swallow with small birds and slink of tasty worm.
Making: I, us and me to her, willing myself into her poetry
she stood before us in the Animal Life Gallery, on wrought
-iron steps and girders, above and below. The gentle echo
of her voice, gilded as glass eyes, staring out from stag
& swan, buck and magpie.
All the animals came; two by two by two
& for one brief second, I swear I heard the rut of deer
on the moors and sniff of sex, float on the air-
as we all pouted and preened for the Poetess that night.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
...... thank you Z 
I beamed for days afterwards, so missing the lecture didn't ache quite so much...A grand piece for Al's contest...Good luck, my Friend...
