When words don’t bubble up through cracks with ease,
an empty shadow hangs above my cell.
Its barless windows, doors that have no keys,
imprison me when letters say “Farewell”.
On fertile days, my soul flows to the page;
but recently, this ink’s been used elsewhere.
The words which “should have been” stay in their cage
and songbirds ask me for my nom de guerre.
For verbalising dreams and love and all
the strangenesses which hover over me
are what I live for; through the air they call
and beg my pencil: “Come and set me free!”
So here at last I share some verse with you;
for poetry is always overdue.
© Alan Morrison, 2018