Upton Cottage, Loftus, 12/09/16
Lately I’ve been fretful and regretful
of all the poems I’ve not written
all the words that came at stupid times
when I was unprepared and too tetchy
to pick up a pen and pin them down.
It’s brought a heaviness and a weariness
that’s not helped to write anything new.
Like a clinging unresolved grief
stuck in what could have been.
Only on long walks thoughts have come flying
Passing hedgerows of heavy fruit
and fields of flagging corn
the words buzz and bumble
And I urge my brain to retain them.
But when I’m home with pen in hand
I see that what I’ve caught
is just a tame reflection
of the wildness that once was,
not that long ago.
Today though, it occurs
That all those words
Are not a waste.
Nature isn’t bothered
If her flowers aren’t all seen
And that most of the berries
Will go to seed….