Creative Process

I wrote this on the train from Dumbarton to Glasgow last month.

A poet abroad

Like sticky notes upon the sea
A ragged hill, a leafless tree
And on the desk that was the land
A poet’s path wound carelessly
Along this path her words lay scattered
Tiny seeds for birds that chattered
Then came the rain like babies’ feet
And on the seeds it pitter pattered

Days and nights passed, years of sowing
Words like treasures overflowing
But even magpies kept their distance
And nothing on the path was growing
Then came a rustling in the trees
The seeds were carried on the breeze
They sprouted in far distant lands
South Africa, Ukraine, Belize

Like sticky notes unstuck the landscape fluttered
Into life, old rivers splashed and spluttered
And so the poet’s work was done
A heart was free, a desk uncluttered
Like sticky notes upon the sea
A ragged hill, a leafless tree
And on the desk that is the land
A poet’s path winds endlessly

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