This jumper looks decidedly jumpy.
Like a thug it's been following me
from house move to drawer move.
Thick. Sullen. Woollen-mouthed.
A poem's trying to track me down.
It wants me to confess to it.
But I won't. It will try and trick me,
catch me when I'm not looking,
or deliberately disguise itself
in a smile of love that hovers
and then vanishes. Or in the soft
honey tones of a heather-clad hillside.
Or this jumper. Lying here. On the bed.