‘The wild girl in the heart’
(Dorothy Hewett’s phrase)
hides, these days, in a slow,
faltering body. I navigate stairs
bit by bit, angling my feet
painstakingly, not to trip.
Dorothy herself got old and fat,
but still sat down on the grass
with Nigel Roberts and me
at a Montsalvat poetry fest,
discussing our various erotica.
If I sank to the ground now,
I don’t think I’d ever get up!
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