by Ann Drysdale

An accusation to which I readily put my hand up

I am a metre-wanker and
My head is full of sums.
I work alone with what’s my own
And tweak it till it comes.

It seldom happens straight away
But I can give it time.
I lubricate and titillate
With assonance and rhyme.

I pander to my passion for
Felicity of diction,
Which I believe I can achieve
By gentle, rhythmic friction.

At first I feel it firming up,
Then it will sigh and soften.
I know each stage from urge to page
Because I do it often.

With optimistic tinkering
And educated guess
I take the thing and make it sing
A self-complacent “Yesssss!”

Much of Ann Drysdale’s writing can be obtained by contacting the author via