This shabby shape is not the real me.
Imagine, please, neat-knotted round my throat,
A silken scarf beneath my winter coat;
Not vulgar. I will give to charity,
Perhaps. My wealth won’t make a change in me,
Though change no longer has the need to float
In sweaty fists. A mansion with a moat
And helipad? My finer self’s beneath
My iceberg graph of debt outlined in red:
Under the waves, its bulk a reassuring
Black. You’ll understand, I’ll have to learn
New ways. I scrape the scratchcard foil and shed
My old abandoned skin. A roar of falling;
A belching jackpot, gold with unconcern.
Elaine Ewart, Fenland Poet Laureate
Wisbech Museum Charles Dickens Exhibition, September 2012