Carol Ann Duffy, the Poet Laureate, has written a moving tribute to the outgoing director of the Edinburgh International Book Festival. She was responding to an approach by festival organisers who had asked her if she would compose a poem to celebrate the nine-year tenure of Catherine Lockerbie, who steps down this year.

The result is a lively, humorous and occasionally emotional homage to the book festival, as seen from inside the author’s tent — universally known as “the yurt”. Duffy said that she began to write Inside the Yurt while on the train from Manchester to Edinburgh. It includes references to the visits to the festival of Al Gore, the former US Vice-President, and the late Dame Muriel Spark.

“I said I would do it if I could write a genuine poem,” said Duffy, who added that she spent “every waking minute for three days” writing the tribute. “That’s really quick for me,” she said.

Lockerbie, who is leaving to take on other commitments, was given an emotional send-off on Sunday by an audience that included the writer Ian Rankin, the philosopher A. C. Grayling, and Duffy.

Susan Rice, the festival chairman, said that under the direction of Lockerbie the event had become an international celebration, perhaps the biggest of its kind in the world, and that the first-day visitor numbers of 18,000 were a record.

Duffy said that it was difficult to put into words Lockerbie’s contribution to “the most magnificent, most important and most generous book festival in the world”. She added that, unlike various other literary celebrations, the event in Edinburgh had not resorted to roping in pop stars to boost its popularity.

“Catherine has got total integrity. That’s what makes it so special,” she said. “It’s a shining light for language.”

Inside the Yurt by Carol Ann Duffy (for Catherine Lockerbie)

Inside the yurt was a pond where goldfish swam

and the poets fished for haiku, undisturbed

by the piper playing an old lament outside.

Inside the yurt was a parliament, the politicians

took off their masks at the door and lay down

with the truth, a dram, from where they watched

London Town floating away like a dream.

Inside the yurt was an elephant, a hump-backed whale,

a swarm of bees, a Vice-President of the USA

who had come to say enough was enough. Inside

the yurt was a mosque at dusk, the sound of a wholly

human voice. A novelist whizzed round and round

in the yurt in her red Ferrari. A scientist checked

his notes on the next tsunami. A polemicist helped himself

to a large red wine and salami. Inside the yurt

was a loch where the National Monster swam

and another dram … and another dram … and another dram …

Inside the yurt was a magic pen which signed the name

of someone who wasn't there. Inside the yurt was the key

to a prison cell; a candle burned. Inside the yurt

was a wishing-well, a Gaelic spell, the Hogmanay bells,

a nine-year queue of children, women, men,

two million, then, all in the yurt in a singing ring

for Catherine, for Catherine, for Catherine,

who brought to the yurt the living, giving word

and the bells and the books and the candles. Thank her.