The Muse sent me the second half of a poem. br So, I asked her for a beginning. br She continued to refuse this beginning br because she knows I am seeking a major beginning, br after so many endings not so quick to see br in the water, flashing, a quick strong minnow br silver backed and patterned. br So, I roamed my hills and botched my poem br as poets will, to where she started: br br The poem WILD BOAR has to contain br the words PLOD, BRISTLE and ACORN br or anyway OAK. The poem HERON br must have at least three words from PRIEST, br PATIENT, LECTERN, GRAVE, LIGHTNING, br but a dig for remains of things br can never find a SHARD. br Is poetry a dig for remains? Not at all. br Is it a heron? Not entirely. br Is it a wild boar, glimpsed through woods br in a lifetime of clambering, br a frisson, this area dangerous br where the stag might shove, br birds attack or the black tick bore? br Is this poetry poetry? br Or not? “We are sorry to say” br but, truly, guardians of the visible, br overground world, you are glad br to protect your gullible personnel br from lightning and risk from contamination br by those who have seen wild boar. br Boredom is your metier. As little br must happen and as slowly as possible. br Poetry is the impossible art. br br Well now, Muse, you infuriatingly Lesbian br and untameable arts administrator, br it's my turn to tell YOU something br as I wander home on my well worn path br through the spring woods, primroses, br coming bluebells, br prostrate bracken, br about-to-disappear snowdropp leaves, br moss and stones and mud br down onto the tarmac. br I can finish this poem myself.