Crying To Be Written (rev)

Dawn has reached the ridges to the north
and night chased west by a thin line of light;
it is the best time of day for me – a cup of
coffee, dogs pretending to sleep in baskets
at my feet. Seated, ready to write knowing
the lounge fire is glowing cheerfully,
relaxing into profound thoughts.

I had the opening lines when I awoke, a
sharp couplet bought at no cost, bright,
brimming with promise of more rushing on
into an easy progression and beyond.

Sadly it is gone in the inward thrust of the day;
a fleeting adoration lost, a lyrical compilation
of whimsical brilliance – an amazing ephemeral
meeting merely brushed against my mind,
floating on, uncontained, wafting into an
insubstantial nothingness.

It is an image I will borrow nonetheless,
a symptomatic consequence of the duress
I live in, the distress of one million poems
crying to be written.
© 7 July 2006, I.D. Carswell