This year, Shakespeare’s birthday found me queuing at my local butcher’s, bargain packs in hand. For the record, chicken fillets and pork rib chops. These were beautifully juxtaposed with the back of the woman in front of me in the queue. Across this broad canvas, a selection of illustrations were randomly scattered. It was the poem which caught my eye, something about being on an ocean wave. I was sad that I could only read the first four lines, for the back of her dress did not drop far enough for me to read any further. I imagined that even in Kettering it would be poor form to pull the material back a bit to get a better view. Thus I was left in a state of poetic bereftness, never to know the rhyme promised but not delivered, cut off mid-stanza as I stood transfixed in this emporium, this temple of flesh, of which only some was for sale.
Was this butcher poetry or poetry butchery? I feel a sleepless night approaching.