Letter pieces thrown from board,
I wait until they drop.
Except, not quite, I speak of ready words,
the dictionary pages torn,
then through a hungry shredder fed.
I take the slithers out of their place,
remaining neighbours, never less.
‘Components’ for ‘ingredients’, I scrabble for my word;
the tip of tongue, I know am wrong,
but know the thinking right.
Right notes but in the order wrong
as Eric Morley said,
or was it Morecombe, not Miss World,
with chubby little friend.
Les Dawson on piano, with confidence I play,
yet though the Lord’s Prayer, obvious,
alternative, the service made.
I can think silently, fish gasping for my term,
or float its neighbour, maggot hook,
hope close enough to reel.
I might consume Crabb’s synonyms,
helped glass of ginger wine,
a change of letter, sound almost same,
some journey in my mind.
Stephen Kingsnorth, 67, is retired from ministry in the Methodist Church, living in north Wales. (He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease five years ago, and has been writing poetry for some 9 months)