So. I started writing a poem about waiting. And in one of those curious moments of decision I went for rhyme royal, a seven-line stanza with an ababbcc rhyme scheme (supposedly ‘royal’ because James I of Scotland used it for his poem The Kingis Quair, but possibly more prosaically named for the French chant royal: less exciting and therefore probably right: thank you as ever, Wikipedia).
The first stanza turned out to be about penguins, the way the male emperor penguins look after the eggs through the winter, clustering together to keep off the worst of the weather.
But then the other verse started to arrive. And they didn’t have anything to do with penguins. In fact the penguins were starting to stand out. Four verses in they were standing, staring at me.
I don’t like being stared at. So they had to go. But as I don’t like making penguins homeless I have re-housed them here.
The hundred-miling molecules of wind
hand out, in passing, slaps of air and snow;
their greetings for the penguin backs they find,
black barnacled in drear paternal row.
Their futures, feather-lodged, and set to grow,
Maintain their seasons, won’t be hastened on.
The wind observes, and just as quick, is gone.