Wednesday, 6 June 2012

A Response

I used to write poetry
for no audience at all,
the lines sent off into space
like speckles of dust
lost in morning light.

The words would alight
off the page and
I’d hope
into you, but

of course they did not.
The frantic rush through darkness
letters tumbled back to me
no dial tone.

Then one grey day
words came rushing through
my own door,
language that fancied
creaking roofs and

softened faces.
And I thought what a thing
to have poetry,
to have words freely rushing in
guided by the morning light.

No comments:

Post a Comment