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If I'm a writer, why can't I write?

For the last few days I've felt no need

Or rather, every time I've tried to find

A reason to do so, my mind is blank,

Nothing inspires or drives me to set down

Ideas which might have meaning just beyond

The trivial accidents of daily life.

And so I wait, but increased frustration

Demands I set down something, even if

It only fills a space upon a page,

Adds another number to the list

Which will be ignored eventually

As I try so sift the meaningful

From amongst the reams of meaningless.

The snow has gone, the sky is clear again.

Swans drift past like a corps de ballet

Waiting for their entrance in Act Two;

Geese are wary but the ducks ignore

The aquine aristocracy as they

Squabble over bread the tourists throw

Or early shoots along the river bank.

Brian Hick March 2013

©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.25