We sit and wait in hushed reverence
as the great man - with hair like mine, and C&A clothes -
arose
The Laureate.
The priest of prose.
He spoke in quiet Yorkshire tones
of his joy of working with girls and boys
and like a visiting stand-up cracked
that he found here weird
and could not pronounce Aurigny
OR-EEEE-KNEE we all mouthed.
Then he read from selected works
with an emphasis on the coast
a place for him exotic as the moon
he told us of his penniless Pennine walks
where he would literally
earn a crust living on his words:
those words arranged like the blocks
of the dry stone walls
in his native land, solidly built
with meaningful gaps between
inspiration for an installation -
the plaques inscribed with his
works - his Stanza Stones.
Then questions from the audience
who by then were almost mute
afraid to look the fool
before the ruler of rhyme
in his casual wear
I too was silent - what could I have asked -
how was Lockdown? - we all knew -
he spent it in his shed with the famous
and a TV crew
despite his self- effacing air he is
quietly industrious with massive self belief
likes Bowie and OMD and
is a wannabe rock star just like me:
but the gulf between he and I
is as ‘twixt land and sky.
Stephen A. Roberts
Image : Stephen A. Roberts
