A bank holiday of note, but only for me
A year since I wrote my first bit of poetry
I think it’s a year; well it’s a year at least
I first wrote last Easter, but it’s a movable feast
It’s all gone quiet both at home and at work
Back to back long weekends, the country is going berserk
People booked leave in their clever sneaky ways
They get eleven for the price three, cos of the Bank holidays
So about a year ago I wrote for the first time
This started my collection of good and bad rhymes
We are in week seventeen of the full fifty two
No sign of me stopping, I find it cathartic to do
I’m not sure what I’ll do or how it will finally look
I’ve written it down; I’ll cover it well and sell it as a book
So if in the future you’re reading this in paperback or on kindle
I will try to raise my rhyming game and hopefully not dwindle
Whoever you are reading this whenever it’s your turn
I am writing about what I’m writing about, which is a little post modern
Looking forward to the end of this week
When wedding partiness will defiantly hit its peak
It’ll be dancing and drinking a frightfully thrilling affair
Guest firing of wedding clichés without undue care
Meeting up with friends from the Island and beyond
Making more history, cementing further our bond
A day of fun for all with lots of love and pride
Why am I always the bridesmaid and never the special bride?
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