Bluebells and forget-me-not's surround
our log cabin in shades of spring sky;
while creepers slide, snake-like, around
weathered pine walls; their tendrils
straining to reach the golden evening Sun.
An ordinary summer house
in a typical country garden.
Appearances can sometimes be deceptive.
Because this is a place of extraordinary
inspiration, where hypnotic birdsong
lulls the mind into altered states
of consciousness; where
the heart opens to Soul language,
translating it effortlessly
into simple everyday words.
Here, I am the blank page that awaits
our collective life story:
am a humble transmission device
for Universal communication.
I think they call me "poet",
although the privilege is a fleeting one.
I cannot hold on to such ethereal impressions,
nor ever call them mine.
The best I can do is catch them as they pass
and record them here on this screen,
before they're lost forever
to the spiralling of time.
Today, I've been trapped in a creative void.
Yet as I now lean on the frame
of open window, watching
the lengthening shadows
trace crazy patterns across the lawn;
the sweet scent of honeysuckle
permeates a garden suddenly filled
with the most delightful birdsong...