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My glass is empty, the sadwiches all gone;

And still the page lies blank - a silent threat

As if it knows my pen simply won't write.

The radio drones on, time, lengthening,

But still nothing comes and what's worse

My mind is like a gnat at summer's end

Desperate to keep busy out of fear

That if I stop I'll have to face the truth

That though I want to write much more than this -

Am desperate to ensure that I still can -

The blank page stares me out until I blink

And it has won again...

            I reread these lines and realise

            This dull dross is not fit for your eyes.

Brian Hick February 2015

©copyright Sally Hick 11.2.26

 Writer's block

As many writers seem to set aside

Certain hours each day for quiet times

To concentrate on turning out their rhymes

Or chapters for a novel, I decide

That I will do so too, and yesterday

I went into the woods, sat on a bench,

And started writing, hoping to  retrench

The fallow hours that currently hold sway

Forming verses with consummate ease

While I sit surrounded by the trees

Which mark the progress of this woodland Ride

Between Bohemia Road and Shoredean's side.

          It didn't work; the Muse was still in bed

          So I went  home and cut the grass instead.

Brian Hick August 2009

©copyright Sally Hick 22.8.22