Weeding for Mr Wordsworth

My bet is Wordworth never had to choose
Between The Prelude, polishing a verse
And ditto with the silverware
For Dorothy was ever there
And Mrs W did the chores
And kept away the tiresome bores
And Eliot though he measured spoons
Evenings, mornings, afternoons
Still when he heard the sweet lines forming
Despite mad Vivian's rage and storming
Put down the love song set to shock
With tea and toast, J A Prufrock

In my head the poems come and go
Echoes of Hopkins, T S and Co

No Porlock stranger snaps my thread
Just thoughts of weeds in strawberry bed
For though the garden lovesome grows
How soon the careful measured rows
Of bean and pea and such delights
Have lost the battle and the light
Whilst I, unminding, grope for rhyme
Careless of world enough and time

In my head the poems come and go
Echoes of Hopkins, T S and Co

And so it is for artist who
Loses herself as artists do
In oil on canvas, gone for days
Down the labyrinthine ways
Striving for colour, tone and line
Whilst others talk and sleep and dine

So yes I'll choose creation's birth
Echo of heaven heard on earth
Sweet wonder that keeps the stars apart
Dancing with angels, the poet's art

June 8th 2009 Hounoux, for Gill and for Susan