Inside his head

Meeting my pal the poet at a gate
with views of fields, peaks, clouds
I batted out my usual, "Grand day!"
and got the curt reply "Shut up -
I'm in the middle of a line"
he lives too much inside his head

it's also a grave malady of mine
I thought as I tramped on
chuntering to myself at his discourtesy
and then at other snubs I've had in life
stretching back to infancy

how I asked Dad to judge my drawing
and he said brother Stan's was better
(and that was fifty years ago and more)
how I boasted of the jigsaw I helped complete
but the man next door said I only put one piece in
how I was passed over for the prefect's cap
how the loveliest of all left me - me! - for smarmy Tim
and on and on - re-living my disasters

black clouds darkening cloudless June
as I walked blindly by hedges of scabious,
wild roses, dog daisies, buttercups
and didn't know the birds were singing in their halls
and all the mansions of the great were green

we live too much inside our head