If I have to, then let me be the whaler poet,

launcher of the knife, portioning off

the pink cut, salt trim and fat, tipping

the larger waste off the side of the boat,

and then to have the poem in the drawer;
or, perhaps, let it be the poet nurse,

hearts measured by a small watch, balmer,

washer of old skin, stopping by the door

in the night –

                         or the oil-driller poet, primed

for the buried flame and heat, lips to the black,
aware how the oilfields in the evening

are lit like our own staggered desks.

Or, the horse-trader or the smith, or the waiter poet –

offering the choice wine, polishing to the light,

the bringer of the feast and the bill.


‘The Work’ first appeared in Moontide, Hexham: Bloodaxe Books, 2014