I sit on the sofa at 6.45 am
watching cricket on TV
with the sound off.
I’m reading from Paul Durcan’s
latest collection of poetry,
a Christmas present to myself.
I can write poetry like that.
In fact I have written
Paul Durcan-type poetry
but about five grades
below his standard.
Another wicket. Another poem.
I have only one regret in life:
that I didn’t play more cricket.
I read a fair deal of poetry,
but these days
much of it is barely comprehensible,
even to someone who loves poetry.
Thanks be to goodness for Paul Durcan
for poetry I can make sense of and enjoy.
I’m also more than grateful for cricket.



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