You rightly, quite politely, criticise
my efforts at composing “pleiades”.
What’s rare about revilings such as these
is, blaming me for leaving out my “I”’s.
The reason isn’t tricky to surmise.
My arrogance supposes I, with ease,
can conjure (with unthinking expertise)
whatever I may please. Please don’t despise
my failure to peruse the contest rules,
for carelessness (the calling-card of fools)
is what possessed me. That, I can’t disguise.
Each time a fresh and feisty pair of eyes
lands on my folly, one more pride-cell dies.
Its silver magenta
is shimmering warm-white
in damson-dark center,
ink-black like summer night;
if clay turned inventor,
it might spawn this dawn-light.
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