Walking up the hill to the poetry class,
talking to myself as if a madman, of how,
tonight, I’ll encourage the students
to write vivid and historical verse.

I’m trying to remember the words 
to ‘Strange Fruit’ and also to turn
willpower over to a god of my own
understanding. It’s hard work.

I note with hope the cheap Christmas lights 
that pulse the November houses. The miners’ 
hours long given away to call centres, 
the credit peddlers, the dreams of children.