To me, poetry is what happens when you roll words around in your mouth,
Like pebbles, washed smooth by the sea,
Dull things turned by alchemy into jewels.
Poetry is spotting a vivid green leaf, threaded through with scarlet veins on your walk to school.
Poetry is the utter seriousness with which your child discusses surviving a zombie apocalypse with you.
Poetry is seeing pampas grass, waving majestically from the middle of a traffic island and thinking about the plumage of prehistoric birds.
Poetry is the consolatory grasp of a hand that anchors you on a day when you are lost to yourself.
Poetry is pushing a trolley through a half empty supermarket, dreaming of coming across true love in the cat food aisle.
Poetry is the trace of your mother’s perfume lingering in the porch when she has already left,
But which shows you her as if she were here, and here, and here.
Poetry is a pop of orange berries, tinged with blue, that remind you that the year is dying like a phoenix in reverse.
Poetry is catching sight of yourself in a shop window and wondering who that person is.
Poetry is the blast of love that shakes you when you see your child’s sleeping head framed against a pillow.
Poetry is thinking that Marmite is probably the tar that coats a million dinosaur bones, nestling in the earth.
Poetry is the hole, smashed through your gut by a last goodbye.
Poetry is the distillation of reality, squeezed through the eye of your imagination
Given tongue by the feelings that well up inside you,
Poetry is the open door that beckons you away from the mundane into a life of every day miracles.
Katy Wheatley – aged 42 1/2