He tried it because he heard it said
Truly, there is no right side of the bed
To emerge from in the “write” frame of mind
So busy yourself with differing thoughts
Considered the wise “old” muse
So he pondered.
In the depth of winter
Trees have lost their clothing
Long sleeved branches shiver
Longing for the emergence of spring
In order to show off their beauty
Birds of the air scarce in numbers
Bird song most infrequent
Babbling brooks swollen
Bees, their buzz silenced
Primroses, daffodil’s and all manner of flowers sleep
He could go on and on and on
In the back of his mind he knew of a suitable end
So it was left to Shakespeare
That time of year
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Poetry from The Man Shed
16/01/2020
~The Poet’s Poet~
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