In this cubbyhole hive, poets
by Richard George
Canute the bore - they don't read, or touch-type.
Squacco quills poise
for fin and flash in the ripple-mirror.
They are silent and still
as grandmasters computing enigma variations
where the black squares are words they score 'tacet'.
No skyscrapers of textbooks threaten to topple.
The angler-bird is stalked by an Argus centipede.
In the lighthouse, a longer lens
swivels. And poets wait.