I was reading a Philip Larkin poem and got rudely interrupted by a family member

Ramble chatter pander wander
out of here go upstairs open the study door
Instagram Messenger Gmail Daily French Reminder open up Notes
down below trolley screeches across the floor

Better write a poem about how words bury oneself in a sea of beech leaves where the ivy’s climbing roots strangle the trunk and assertions have no meaning.
But it’s so hard to translate into words what deep in your heart you really feel.
To concentrate when your creativity will never be crystallised in front of an LCD constant noises pings beeps squeaks squawks and things what’s more                                                               all these distractions anchored by the dull thud of a potential Wikipedia search.

But better get used to it I know it’s here to stay

“George….we’re going now”

Or maybe I should just let my mind meander?


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