I needed to write but no subject came,
The landscape sterile, the Writers bane.
No rain of words to anoint the seed,
Those gales of thought by which we feed.
A page like snow where no foot had strayed,
Oh Calliope had flown, no succour paid.
Until; Until I saw her near in Summer dress,
A beguiling smile and flowing tress.
She put to shame the tepid Sun;
To free the Verse and a Poem was done.
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Author:
Kevin Hulme (
Offline) - Published: November 13th, 2024 20:12
- Category: Love
- Views: 19
Offline)
Comments1
Nicely done, Kevin. Ah the old writer's block. It's like an itch we can't scratch. But, as the poem suggests, there's nothing finer than when you find the words once more.
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