Some poems just get completely out of hand.
Merrivale is a piece that I started in 2012, thinking it would be a short praise-poem to a place that has snagged me, become a place of significance and remembering. The poem had other ideas.
Whenever I think I've finished with this, it just wants to change into something else. It's intolerable. How can this be?
I've thought upon the matter at some length as I've wrestled with getting it into a final, fixed form Putting it into Falconer's Joy has - partly - been about casting it into one form, for better or worse.
Read more: Oh, Merrivale, my difficult prog-rock poem-child!
