Lunch with the Laureate

‘New collection published today,’ he said,

and picking up a knife and fork,

tore into the imaginary book

on the empty plate before him.

‘And you can bet some young critic,

eager to make a name for himself

is sitting down right now and sharpening

his claws before tearing it to pieces.’

‘But you’re Ted Hughes,’ I thought.

The Ted Hughes. Who would have the gall

to attack a new collection of poems by you?’

‘But you’re Ted Hughes,’ I said.

‘Does it really matter what some jealous

metropolitan, would-be poet thinks or says?’

The main course arrives.

Fox cutlets, stuffed crow, wolf brains.

Unnerving, but delicious.