Why?

Why, when I could write anything at all

Do I find myself confined to what is close

Or has just occurred, rather than the world

Of nature or romance, the siren call

Of waves off Beachy Head, the approaching storm

Sliding up the channel on a front

Of startled gulls, the silence of the woods

Behind the lake engulfed in evening calm,

While all the buzzing rubbish of the day

Hums like a cloud of midges in my ear

Recalling the minutiae of waste,

Time frittered and relationships' decay.

          Why should you want to read what I might write

          When I dare hardly let it see the light?

Brian Hick

©copyright Sally Hick 30.9.22