Let’s start at the beginning – what poems aren’t.
They don’t get old and die like trees; you can’t
Ignore them as you do your parents, just
Because they’ve nattered on at you and fussed
Away like that since you were very small.
No, poems aren’t like that at all.

Perhaps they’re more like famous buildings – those
Castles you’ve seen on trips you never chose;
They may fall down one day, but even then
Something remains – foundations, stones – the men
Who built them can’t be quite forgotten. There
Remains some trace for later folk to share.

Maybe that’s part of it – there’s something shared
Between you and the poet: someone has dared
To write down his ideas, and you’ve read
Them, added your feelings in your head,
And that’s the poem: the picture that it draws
Inside your head – unique, itself, all yours.

You see, whoever wrote the poem, or when,
It’s you it speaks to: first you read it, then
It brings to mind your memories, thoughts. And so
Of all the people who’ll have seen it, no
One will have read it just the same as you.
Which makes the poem, however old, quite new.

But that’s the easy bit: consider now
That you grow up and change with time, and how
You see new places, understand new thoughts:
The woman, once the little girl in shorts,
May read the same poems that she used to then
To find them changed: she’s made them new again.

So all your different birthdays stretch ahead,
And each one changes you, so in your head
Will be worlds I won’t understand. And yet,
Though this poem changes too – for nothing’s set
In stone – it brings you, little girl or ageing dame,
Love, and a Happy Birthday, every year the same.