Muse of the small hours,
absent wife,
whose lusty throat-motor
meant breath, meant life,

to the poet husband
agitated awake
and composing verses
in his head, in the dark,

when regular folk
were in their beds
translating dreams
into neat rows of zeds,

be with me again
in the too-quiet night
as I pick up my notebook
and falteringly

start to write.


This article first appeared in the 02 April 2012 issue of the New Statesman, France is my enemy