They keep asking him, so, you write poetry… right!?
And he will keep on smiling – gracious for the simple fact that they have actually taken the time
Because, rest-assured, they never did that before
The writing was there but seems he just wasn’t
Something or other finally managing to claw its own way back, sticking somewhere, anywhere will do inside of their each and every million-mile-an-hour mind
I blame the internet et al, although minus it this particular boy’d most probably find himself to be absolutely lost, rooted to the seriously unbuffered spot
Not so much his writing as of yet, perhaps, on his part… rather an early-doors local reputation for this thing a little or a lot left of centre
Hardly a shrinking violet, sure ain’t he the pilot?
Does tend to beg the rather fair and interesting question, however…
Just how on earth did Heaney do it in the very first instance!?
Like the former’s mother always said, every local is the same, just need to spread your wings all over again… and again
And GO! Toe-to-toe
Ten, twenty, then so much as a million-and-one times
Send ’em packin’, send ’em serendipitously blind!! These words just will not stop
I think he can genuinely see how it is that the finest can, and will, go absolutely mad, so far from sober it will no doubt end up hurting on one level
Usurping them to an artistic point of no real return
But, seems you do need to earn it one way or other
So. raise a glass, and perhaps get ready to smash it on over your very own head by the end!
He can but dream of a legacy of sorts, heck, maybe he even ought to

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