i, a so called poet
who can burn a blank page
with word rage
can turn a lively sparkling sea
into a calm soothing balm
who can conjure up a sunrise
or sink the sun beyond the horizon
paint words in colour
evoke the scent of a rose
in the throes of midwinter
and melt snowflakes
in summer heat
i can convey all this and yet
when my beloved mum
elderly and frail
ailing and sick
tells me she wants to die
all i can do is sigh
and tell her i love her
i have no words
that will bring her a
crumb of comfort