W.B.

Seems Yeats died some eighty years ago this month.
The critics still are praising him, but I drove out
To his estate, dressed for the trip (it's Ireland)
In rubber boots and sturdy jacket, knowing what
I had to face: the fields and pathways clogged
With muck, the mist. I couldn't walk or see.
When I got home, I took a bath. I dressed again.
I've cleaned my glasses, and withheld my praise.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2019-01-21 at 19:05

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