The poets are on strike today

and so will not take note

when a biscuit wrapper boats

its way across a puddle in a breeze


They will not work or wonder

even when a lanky streetlamp

wobbles slightly in a wind


Some might find it promising

to observe an airliner

flying in a cloud

that moves at the same speed


But even if such things are seen

the poets are on strike

and so won’t reach out

for their booklets and their pens


Nor will they labour later on

making hastily writ words

rhyme, scan, alliterate a little more

or into better metaphors


And when this rare day closes

and the dusk draws down

those same poets

will not respond

even if they look-up

at a tower of familiar flats

just as the communal lights all sparkle on


The poets are on strike today

refusing to cross a line

that only poets perhaps see

and which might divide mere life

from something similar

yet all aglow with gracious imagery