Steven Taylor
The defiant lover
I am the told husband
And I have jumbled things up again
Like the brown mis-buttoned cardigans
Thrown haphazardly together
In all their tangled, twisted
And woebegone arms
Onto the same trestle table
In the Village Hall, for sale
Most Autumns and each Spring
And always, always
In aid of the same grey slate
That tiles our low Presbyterian roof -
But it is up to me, not her
To sniff and then sort, pull
These tightly knotted elbows out
To size them properly, honestly
And provide each with a price
Apart and distinct
It depends on me, who I am...
Who I am, and remain
Most defiantly, is hers -
But sometimes, I confess,
Like the Unionism of Ulster
I am also the defiant lover
Of something else entirely.
Page(s) 52
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