Thursday, August 25, 2022
Wambles and Griffonage
From jadeite forests, crystal green,
Near pristine rivers indigo, lavender,
And mirrored sky all white and blue.
But, such are will-o’-the-wish dreams
And happy thoughts from daytime naps.
Such tours are short for stumps,
And sad, old oaks with too much bark
And no bite.
The whispered shadow of afternoon sun
Breached the window’s dusty pane,
To brush its fire on vellum battlefield,
Where liquid thought begets griffonage;
Where wheezing bellows stoke
The Muse’s ancient flames.
Yet naught is heard but sips and wambles.
Oh! So rarely,
The blessed words come.
It's been a while since I wrote about writing, and the battle to coax the words forth and aid them in telling their story.
Posted by Mick at 12:34 AM