Our self-made magic
Old poets’ idle prattle
words that would wound
the wayward wind
Lives hollowed
by the wearing
of cheap trinkets
all celebrate
in sanctimonious ceremony
the abject anecdote
and view
with sour-eyed disdain
the truth of beauty
So saying
disentangle the nets of being
cut down the webs
of intrigue and deceit
shun scarcity and want
release the ensnared foot
and invoke the majesty
of the magic we make
Throw out the baseless fabrics
of fame and fortune
the trumpery
upon whose nature
nurture can never stick :
from spider learn
the fragility of life’s ladders
and scorn the cankers
that lie
within the body politic
John Lyons