Philip Larkin Was In Our Garden

Philip Larkin was in our garden – writing poetry they said

My neighbour told her neighbour that she’d seen him lurking, furtively

It happened to be raining on his writing, it was pouring – and when he stopped to light a fag, the ink on all his writing bled

Mum reckoned he was writing loads of swearwords on the paper – words she thought I didn’t know and dad had never said

But in fact, I knew all the words – the knowledge never hurt me – instead, I found it funny as I thought the bloke was dead.

No-one knew quite how he’d got in there - if he’d travelled up by train – on the 15.12 to Coventry

The 15.12 had been delayed, wet leaves along the line, they’d stopped it somewhere outside Slough and blamed it on the rain

Philip Larkin disagreed when given sugar by my mother in a very hot, strong coffee that he stared at when he stirred

Said the railways needed bombing and he’d do it if he could

This was why he drove a motor car - he mostly used for work – in a library based In Coventry and when my mother asked him if the rain had spoiled his work

Mr. Larkin looked up wobbly and told her ‘fucking probably’ but he wanted to be viewed of as a man that didn’t shirk

Mr. Larkin then picked up his bag and headed out the gate – when asked why he was leaving now, he told us he’d be late

For a conference on poetry – he’d earned some notoriety – and if he didn’t make it up there he’d would likely not be paid

So that was Philip Larkin, looking furtive in our garden and when no-one believed me, now I wish that he had stayed

I wanted to have told him – in the rain – it could be worse, if he dried the bloody paper it could be the fucking Verse.