Still, the moon stared.

Having sat all morning gazing

Each second, a salute to a new day.

Within this haven of peacefulness

His curiosity peaked.

Words spoke to him over and over.

There are times when his poetry grows

From life’s orientation.

Then there are times when he is happy

To sit and see the sky change

Watch a snail leave its trail

As it moves across a window pane

sit and feed crusts to winters birds.

Life can be as simple or as complicated

As he wishes it to be.

It is an autumn day, in Wexford

He awaits the arrival of night

When this room will creak with his music

Words will flow from pen

Decorate his vellum.

From this pool of light

He will have his poem.

Poetry from The ManShed (c) The author

10/10/19