The cafe poets, the pub poets,
the kitchen table poets,
the poets with pain and the
poets without
look at me and say
Which are you?
I say
I don’t know.
I don’t want to know.
Read my poems and define me.

I could tell them this:
My mother is a seaside artist,
a meadow artist,
a pebble painter.
My mother is a fireside spinner,
an easy-chair knitter.
My mother is a natural dyer
and a skier
but still undefined
she says.