No Idea - Andrew Barham

Have I exhausted my muse,
Worn her out with my rambles
Through the inferno
Of poetic inspiration;
Or has the World of Man
Merely caught up with my poetry?

I ramble through ancient verse
Laid down long long ago
By the Poet of the Greenwood
Standing up for the Understory
Against the sheriffs
Of this mercantile age.

The world has indeed
Caught up with my poetry:
Those mercantile monarchs and lords
Who promised so much
As they accumulated everything
For a handful of bright beads;

I am no Little Sir John,
Though I chronicle our own hundred year war
Against these mercantile imperialists
As we skirmish and turn about
Winning a battle here and there
While we lose the war.

Just as it seems all hope is lost
And the new mighty evil empire
Is about to proclaim itself
Rulers of Earth for all time,
A tiny glimmer of sunlight appears
And steals through those dark massing clouds.

Sir John, patronised by
The kings and lords of his war,
Through access, gained a deeper insight
Into his own troubled times –
I am not Sir John, for I have no access,
But I am the Froissart of our age.

Andrew Barham