This poem,
whilst perhaps not one of my best,
still has its moments,

such as the surprise appearance
in line six
of a capybara, snuffling in long grass,

and a beautiful descrption
of the dance of light upon sun-dappled Umbrian stone
in line eight.

It also contains, in the same sentence,
the striking incongruity
of a conjured image of St Joan, flames rising

to her Roman nose, juxtaposed
with a muddied puddle, in which lies one
of Jeremy Clarkson’s driving gloves.

In spite of this delicate brushwork,
this poem has generally been poorly received,
described by The Sunday Times

as ‘irritatingly self-referential’
and The Guardian as ‘promising much
but delivering little’.

Considerable schadenfreude
has been experienced on Twitter
concerning the spelling mistake in line seven.

This poem, though, harbours no delusions
of anthologized grandeur,
expects no recitals at literary lunches,

indeed, would feel surprised to be remembered
for more than thirty seconds
after being read.

This poem is just happy to be here,
to have filled these pages,
which were all so much white space before.