In old Dutch paintings

a green-winged hummingbird

might stand for love

when it’s on the inside of a pane of glass.

Hovering outside, it signifies the woman within

has been betrayed.

How would you know this

were it not for the scholars and books?

You would have to be Dutch from 1656.

In my notebook, this poem is preceded and followed by a few lines.

Preceding is a criticism, “There you go doing that thing again, where you write something obscure that no-one else can understand. What’s in your mind?”

After the last lines of the poem, are these comments, mine:

You expect  some easy icons

Tins to pick from Tesco shelves

Or marked down shoes from TKMaxx

My poetry’s just not like that.

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