Each time I write I hear a voice opine:
“Take not one grain of salt from what you say,
nor cover it with saccharine or wine.
This is no time for bards to hide away.”
The urgency which underscores that word
instils the verveful sinews of my verse —
to every highest mountain I am stirred;
all doubts of my ambitions are dispersed.
But yet the ruddy feathers of my quill
are quivering with fateful finitude
in case my soaring strophes should be distilled
and not reflect the wishes of the Muse.
For if my words should seek a valley’s lee,
to compromise I will have bent my knee.
© 2011, Alan Morrison