Something I know, the blank page does not sing.
It glares and dares you, fool, to make your mark.
See how it hisses, bristling till you baulk
then rub it, smudging all its wild expanse.
Other things I know, a leather journal
cannot snare a word or hook a line
any better than a pound shop notebook,
a fountain pen can no more hunt for form
than drug-rep pens or chewed-up pencil stubs.
Fluorescent lights will not illuminate
your soul, nor two-for-ones, narcotic loops
of mindless tunes, where every little helps.
I know that inspiration is not found
feeding on ketchuped mounds of nuggets
and bolognaise or startled by the beam
of television screens. Step back, step back.
Creature of low light, early dawn forages,
twilight shufflings, try to catch its breath on
misty mornings, seek its tracks by evening.
Though sometimes, when you least expect, it slips
along with silent grace, and licks your hand.