I’d just done the best work to fall into my hands for quite some time;
of night oil I’d burned much, made sure both style and content were sublime.
So I put it forward
to the public forum
in anticipation
of my due acclaim.

And meanwhile, by contrast, I’d penned a eulogy, pure workaday,
just hack work,just dashed off, packed full of prolix puff and sad cliche....
No-one can really tell when their hand’s been played out well
and I don’t even know
how my own story goes
or if it’s worth a jot.

I can’t see my stream.

What I thought was perfect,
what I thought was polished,
no-one thought it worth much
and they made that clear.
What I thought was worthless,
merely repetition
somehow tugged the heartstrings,
brought them all to tears.

I can’t see my stream.

No-one can ever know
what of their own’s their very best.