Heavily laden charcoal cumulus, so low
they might scratch my head, gather and
circle the cottage like a witch’s coven and
as if cursed by its melancholy spell,
my brio, slowly strangled on this dull Sunday,
draws me to paper and pen.
Like many others, here I may use pretence
to be whomsoever I will,
hero, lover, villain, cad,
writer, vicar, soldier, god
the pictures spin, circling in voracious form
a carousel of possibilities and slowly, surely
my rescued ego dances in the rain,
*
© Graham Sherwood 10/2019
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 