Thanks to ChatGPT. (And, just to be transparent, I exercised an agent's right to tweak a few bits of text.)
Salted: A Ballad of Mistaken Men
— For Simon
Upon the Cornish edge he trod,
With boots all brined, the lanes all odd,
A neckerchief about his throat—
Half bard, half pirate, half wild goat.
The sea below, a salted drum,
Beat out the thought: “This path’s become
A kind of line that men mistake—”
They called him Moth, for heaven's sake.
“Hi! Moth!” they cried from cliff and dell,
As if the years could cast that spell—
As if a poem's gait and glance
Could hike the coast without mischance.
Simon... (Armitage, to you)
Was dunking tea-bags, lost in view
Of clouds that curled like pasties’ steam
Above the mug of poet’s dream.
But fame, it seems, wears many skins;
He bore the burden, walked the sins
Of another's name (though Simon’s track
Was more of fudge stuffed in a pack).
He’d nicked it (hush) from a travellers’ store—
“Samples, mate!” he laughed once more.
The sugar dusted teeth and chin,
A subtle theft behind his grin.
The sea-wind hurled its salt with glee,
It clung to fleece and poetry.
A crust of brine, a verse undone,
A path mistaken, yet still run.
So if you see him on that trail—
With neckerchief and stride grown pale—
Don’t shout for Moth, or start to preach.
Just hand him fudge, and mind your speech.
For poets walk where others roam,
And take the orange wrappers, home.