And this just fell out of my keyboard

Something inside says I should write.

Maybe something
grand and bombastic
radiant like the sun,
proclaiming my return
from self-imposed exile

Or maybe a rage,
rage against the current world
But I find myself too content to rage
The distanced contentment
of tending a garden in England
while elsewhere in the world scrabble to simply survive

Because fuck it,
my words are garbled
and conveying is so bloody hard,

Just longing for that time when a love
stops me mid-waffle
and says
'I understand'
and gives my lips something else to do
as my mind plunges into ecstasy.

These things and more,
seem to make a British poet;
classical tenderness and wistfulness
in the face of old-news current awful affairs,
because a good cuppa never goes out of style.