This is as dry as bone. The bones of John Barleycorn. The trouble with poets is that they see poetry as a private, solitary art. Send the wife off to the pictures, tell the kids to shut up and there it is, waiting for you like a bowl of cornflakes on the table. Aphorism No. 1: The poet must burn the garret in his head. My poetry flourished in the daylight, grew stronger in the glare of confrontation. It took on the Council, fought to the death the bastard that locked up my mother and destroyed the memories of my youth. What is a poet without the memories of his youth? Like Hitler in his bunker, he pawed the map, planted flags, and sent his henchmen to destroy the town I loved. And nothing blocked their way but poetry. While politicians, historians and Greens wrung their hands in meetings, I was on the streets, hoarse from crying in the wilderness. Only words stood between my past and the slavering curs of progress. But they were futile: pebbles hopping off Goliath's chest.

But I've taught him not to tangle with a poet. And she won't be so high and mighty when they find him. `What about Emo? Coolattin, our majestic native oak?` I gave him Emo. I gave him oak. She'll be sorry he never put a preservation order on himself.

Query No. 1: If poetry stems from the deepest emotions, why are there no poems in praise of exterminating Jews, or letting black babies starve to death? What is more emotional than murder? Why do only good people write poetry. Two essential rules for would-be poets: 1. Wipe Africa from the map of your emotions. 2. Ditto cancer, children, the rape of the planet. Are you a poet or do you want to be Miss World?

When I arrived, there was maybe half-a-dozen of them gathered round the JCB. At first I thought there must have been an accident, but then I saw the old woman, squashed into the bucket, threatening to do away with herself if they didn't give her back the field. I tried to talk to her but she wouldn't budge. After a while, the foreman ordered two lads to lift her out. In a flash she whipped out a breadknife and drew it across her arm: `Are ye happy now? What do ye think of that? Get back, get back, ye pack of bullyboys. Are ye not content with taking the bit of land? Is it blood ye want as well? I'll give ye blood. All the blood ye want!`

When the County Manager appeared, she went hysterical altogether: 'D'ye see this? D'ye see this? It won't be the first time a Murphy died a martyr!`

I went and called the station, but the sergeant said do nothing, let the Council sort it out themselves. So I stayed in the car. To tell the truth, I was half on her side anyway. She never had it easy what with the husband topping himself in the prison and the young lad wandering around in a world of his own.

The Manager looked at his watch and stepped forward again: `Now, Mrs Murphy, I have the whole thing sorted out. Show me that knife like a good woman and the Council will discuss the matter at the earliest opportunity.` continue