|Spirit Of A Muse|
Spirit Of A Muse|
I saw a poet, notepad resting
on drawn up knees. Loosely twirling
a pen, head thrown back connecting
with bark of Churchyard Yew, eyes lost.
He was so still - where were his words?
Were they buried deep in the earth,
crumbling to powder, like bones?
I willed them free, knitting back together
in a skeleton of composition.
I willed him inspiration, that needles fall
from the ancient yew, pricking his skin
imbibing sensation, awakening the
very depth of him.
The yew tree stiffened,
sensing the maelstrom to come.
He raised his head, spread his arms
wide and open to receiving.
The wind rose in a swirling whirlpool
flinging me into the whole of him.
As the wind died, he slept, new
words collecting in his dreams.
I slipped quietly away.