So now I take my leave from blue and sun
(to make my home in biting wind and snow).
Their work upon my soul has now been done;
but they are not enough for me to grow.
For art must have an edge to be of note
so one can fall and break some bones and bleed.
But when that ‘edge’ with ease I sugarcoat,
withdrawal of the Muse is guaranteed.
And thus, from island paradise with all
its magnet charms I now must staunchly flee,
before the scent of sea and sunshine’s thrall
make permanent their clinging hold on me.
From toaster to the freezer now I go
to find my artsome coital afterglow.
© Alan Morrison, 2016