The Thatcher Who Writes Poems
There is a freedom to it, an escape
terror too, ‘cause you sometimes slip, fall, miss
a hearts beat. But also order. You make
with your hands, nature’s hard won accomplice
a poetic bliss, each stitch, twisted, cut,
carried up, eve and hip, gable end strut
brotched like the canopy set above me
just like poetry, knife cut straw on reed.
Climb ladders to step away from it all.
It’s beautiful there, the birds never said
height is the key, for making better bread.
Words like knives shape, poems like roofs can call
a man who needed saving, my darling
I stopped eating, to stop myself starving!