Like words fixed in time on empty page,
Some images tucked away that only we see,
The mind that writes sees all at every stage
And streamlines all till taken is all space free.
A blank sheet, like a pretty face, beckons
Intelligence to give it life, calls for pen’s gold
And the writer a tale to tell that reckons
It’s time for beauty hid to be extolled.
Keeping old fleeting dreams tidily at bay
To get on with the act, there’s a purpose implied;
There’s scarcely any point procrastinating day
When the sun’s overpowering as perfume or high tide.
At such times one wonders, is endeavouring the essence,
When poetry spontaneous has so liquid an omnipresence.