A row of letters
written
attracts other words
as in all else
I strive to make a whole
like ants around a heap
they gather in my mind
some put on hold
as later they will come to use
but not before they're weighed
judged apt
then they're considered
their rhythm
rhyme and meaning coincides
a flash of recognition gives them impetus
they play their subtle game
running round the corridors of my brain
then out they pour in unison
a choir of random thoughts
gels into a poem unexpressed
the letters gather on the page
to my surprise
I recognise their message
develop it
to sit back and sigh
was it truly I who wrote it
it must be a new life before I die
Margaret Ann Waddicor 18th December 2015
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
A row of letters
written
attracts other words
as in all else
I strive to make a whole
like ants around a heap
they gather in my mind
some put on hold
as later they will come to use
but not before they're weighed
judged apt
then they're considered
their rhythm
rhyme and meaning coincides
a flash of recognition gives them impetus
they play their subtle game
running round the corridors of my brain
then out they pour in unison
a choir of random thoughts
gels into a poem unexpressed
the letters gather on the page
to my surprise
I recognise their message
develop it
to sit back and sigh
was it truly I who wrote it
it must be a new life before I die
Margaret Ann Waddicor 18th December 2015
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