Poetry Sucks...

I ditch my pen and paper...

go outside...sick and tired

of trying to write.  Water

in the fields lies deep

in brown-frowning furrows

where two lapwings sit

and contemplate

the nature of things.

Trenchant spikes

of bulrush stand tall

in my pond – overflowing

its banks . A kind of foreboding

pervades, as if winter hides

her imminent tirade

that, doubtless,

will end in tears

and the grey clouds

match my mood – two

shades darker, the green

of a eucalyptus

and the stubborn umber

of the buckthorn.

Something stirs,

something breathes,

and trembling thighs

of the white-barked

silver-birches kiss desire

from a fractious sky –

court a redolent wind.

Likewise, the lapwings

rise...ride the glorious

long spine of a thought-train

regardless of rhythm

or rhyme; all is hushed

save for murmurings

of the trees; poetry

indeed.