poet

the morning sun is come


the morning sun is come
to paint the robin red
and daub the shadows golden
which take me from my bed
but as I rise to greet him
the dreams of you remain
and though the night is cast away
no thought of you could wane
so the morning sun is come
and lights the dawn anew
but like the robin on his breast
I wear red dreams of you.

Untitled Notes on Writer’s Block

there is silence save birdsong
and darkness save this shaded light
there’s a blank white page before me
that waits on me to write,

there are no thoughts within me
save those I have of you
how can I them in conscience fair
with meagre words imbue.

so I hear beyond the silence
and drift into the dark
to set my pen in readiness
before I make my mark.