after three prose years I am teetering back into poetry. Instead of being a waitress, the in-between books seems like a chance to see if I can still do it (a bit). Teaching poetry at evening class I feel a bit of a fraud not writing any so yesterday tried to do the homework I set the students - metaphor that's what. That tones and addles the brain. Too much of it and you tip into madness, seeing always something as something else. Nothing is as it seems! Aristotle, apparently, said the ability to make metaphors led to intuitive perception. He didn't mention the madness - it's not the clouds what are you on about, it's my grandmother's washing line on a Monday. Or Kate Atkinson's 'the car hire lady's suit was so red if she fell into a vat of Heinz tomato suit you wouldn't be able to tell the difference.'

here is one verse of it;

Imagine cliffs that don't give you time to question

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d

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cliffs that don't doubt, don't regret

how one thing changes into another,

cliffs that like brides take the plunge

and go on plunging

while cackling newly-weds build love nests in the air

and chat manically while the wide sea sings lullabies

imagine Caithness