My beard is not a symbol of destitution, Religious fervour, Or criminal intent. Nor of societal maladjustment, Some obscure allergy, Or an estrangement from soap and water. Furthermore, it is not a reliable indicator For my current or recent state of mental health, Which, incidentally, is and has been robustly uneventful. It is merely a gender characteristic Which persistently grows back after pruning – Although with far less copper-red than in my now long-gone salad days. I happen to work in the creative arts sector, Where a little eccentricity of appearance Is not merely tolerated, but actively encouraged – One might even say is de rigueur. As a boy, I aspired to mimic the celebrated Michael Finnegan, Except I was determined I would stay out of the wind. Huzzah!
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