He thinks of himself as ventriloquist
Finding the voice behind my metal stare.
But it’s true to say he may well have missed
The point of me on horseback in City Square.
This is what he does, takes on the world he sees
In sonnets, obsessed with fourteen lines and rhyme,
This week it’s statues, last week it was trees,
It’s beginning to pall, he does it all the time.
So I stare out, me and my bronzen steed,
Embarrassed as again he gets it wrong,
Taking in the view, but of him no heed,
Standing proud and warlike, it’s been so long.
Anybody reading this knows full well
These are not my words: I’m an empty shell.
Marvellous accompanying photograph by Bob McBurney.