Thomas Harrison Poet Bio

What I Am

I am
a windmill, dilapidated but still rotating, creaking,
Lake Windermere off season, quiet and autumnal,
a tooth ache throbbing, an irritation, black decay inside.

I am
a foot stool unvarnished, one leg uneven, rarely used,
a penny farthing holding up traffic, out of time and season,
a pop song, mimed.

I am
an apple, red amongst a bowl of green.
I am one line short of a verse.

I am a letter unopened and unread,
returned to s-

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