January crowns me with snow,
Moulds me in cold molten sunlight and holds me,
The ground beneath straining like a whale’s back
Shrugging up from the waves.
O God, unclench my core,
Gather the skies into myself,
Crying freedom, freedom, freedom…
When a young wandering scholar I was, slovenly and caprylic,
Sniffing musty books like fine wines,
Shagging imaginary tarts in the heart’s knocking-shop,
I brokered dodgy deals with time,
Master of insider trading.
It’s my round,
What are you drinking?
The top shelf,
From left to right.
To Shakespeare I present a lily,
To Byron a rose;
Which of them, I wonder,
Had the bigger nose?
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