Each time I try to write some wordage now,
I realise I’ve written it before.
I think the fertile ground I can replough,
until I realise that there’s no more.
If what has gone before was not received,
then I, the messenger, cannot be blamed.
The aiming of my arrows was achieved
in scattered hearts, so I am unashamed.
Yet, there are times when I am filled with doubt
and reckon there’s no point in what I do.
The only consolation felt throughout
has been to know I do it all for You.
I feel I’ve uttered all there is to say.
There’s only music left; so that I’ll play.
© Copyright, Alan Morrison, 2017