Why bother writing? Shakespeare said it all,
And in a manner one could never match;
Yet, when I stop, I slowly shrink and fall
Until new images inside me hatch.
Meantime my soul’s made pregnant by a thought,
An intuition sharp-eyed as a bird,
And hence the brood by midwife Fancy’s brought
Through pen to page in stanza, line and word.
Then rise I once again, indeed inspired
Like lunatic or lover so possessed:
A phoenix on a tree – reborn, desired;
Adoring all who helped to fill my nest.
Thus with the poet Nature has her way
To see in writing things she feels today.
19 April 2006