PROSAIC
Simon Collery

The blank page says it all;
The straining, sighing, heaving,
Again results in nothing,
Or nothing worth speaking of.
The unfolding storm attracts
My interest, as always.
But all I can do is enjoy it.
It won't be an ingredient
In my next work. I won't
Be able to transform its excitement,
To transmit its magic by page.
Raindrops rattling on the roof,
sombre light, cool wind,
Forked tongues of lightening
And growling thunder;
All too prosaic,
Too prosaic for words.

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Copyright © 2003 Simon Collery

Updated 230603