In Bristol, to escape the drizzle
One November afternoon, I ventured
Into a large book shop, George’s,
Opposite the university where I was
To read that same evening.
It was my custom in those days
To sniff out my slim volumes
And give them due prominence.
Covers outfacing, three or four titles
Would see off most of the opposition.
But on this occasion, try as I might
(and I might have tried harder),
I could find no poetry whatsoever.
Then I spotted the Information Desk
Behind which was a girl with large bristols.
(I mention this, not to be sexist
But to remind you of that fair city.)
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Do you have
a Poetry Section?’ Rose-Marie replied:
‘I think you’ll find it under Livestock.’
I stood, quandried to the spot.
‘Livestock? Poetry? Books of Verse?’
The penny dropped. I watched its descent
Into the perfumed gorge of Avon.
‘Poeltry,’ she laughed. ‘I thought you said Poultry!’