I rarely write poetry, mostly because I’m not very good at it and rarely enjoy it. Here’s one I found the other day that I wrote a while ago though. I can’t tell if it’s any good or not by any standards other than my own, but I would say it’s ‘alright’ if nothing better:

Bank Holidays

I don’t think many people die on bank holidays
leastways, they probably don’t have funerals on bank holidays.
Rain excites me on those days, but mostly the clouds
seem too bored to drop it, or even move aside for the sun.
I wish the shops didn’t close; I wanted some tea.
I wanted rose tea, because of the soft petal-taste
and the bitter black after-taste.
Cathode Ray pixels brand my eyeballs when I close them,
so I look out the window and the trees look back,
forlorn now, since the wind took their feathers.
I mean leaves. It’s not a day for poetry.