What the hail?

by Christos Polydorou

He has figured in many of my poems.
And I do not doubt that he will figure in many more.
Unless he stays.
And gives me peace.

No more gaggles or skeins or wedges of geese.
Hail is falling from the olde London sky.
What can I say?
It’s nearly May.

I am not quite sure who he isn’t.
He is always squinting
and creasing his forehead
so that he looks partly

brooding and partly
in his own skin.
There are parts of me that my mind finds deplorable.