The writer sits and ponders,
filled with empty silent dread,
‘Sorry, this word cannot be found’
the smug spellchecker says.

Weary of petty complications
he drifts, searching for inspiration,
soaring through the African sky
with glorious, lofty liberation.

The yellow plains stretch far below
herds of buffalo, running free
the lions hide amongst the grass
dotted around sandarac trees.

He soars now, over snow-capped peaks
tableclothed in angry cloud,
by eagles, gliding with their young
their talons stretched in readiness
silhouetted in the fiery sun.

He conjures now, Fijian sand, lazy swaying palms
crashing frothy, roaring waves; silky banana ***.
A sparkling ocean glittering, caked with yellow icing,
just a mirror for the setting sun.

But then wings of grace are stripped and
he plummets towards uncertainty,
falling back to swivel chair, staring
at desk lamps, coffee, burgundy.

The rain drizzles down outside,
the heating pours through well-placed vents
as Chinese Communism awaits:
confronting, mocking, dense.