Mum took me along to what we thought was a poetry reading, in Helpston, to the cottage of John Clare, no less. £5, including a glass of wine, not bad. When we arrived with two friends, and spied the pieces of paper and pencils strewn about on tables, we quickly realised this was not going to be a sit-back-and-listen sort of evening. The poet cheerfully explained that to celebrate the launch of her new collection it would be more fun if we all wrote our own poems instead of listening to hers.
I've not written poetry since I was a kid, but the evening was so great, I felt like something long dormant inside had been woken up again. Now I think I have an idea for that lined notebook Karen bought me.
Poolpardon's legs stretch outwards
Bones crack, soothed by shaded grass
The nodding off heads of cottages
Sit in the road
The chaos is not far off
But no bustle for us, no din.
We're scared of being swallowed.