A Pilgrimage in Poetry
It all started on some animals,
And a school assessment on ‘The Drought’;
But as the years began to flow,
I then encountered doubt.
Did I have the rhythm?
Did I have the rhyme?
How could I get into the zone?
And where would I find the time?
But the poem always found me
At a time l least expected;
It found me when I was exultant,
It consoled me when dejected.
At times I wrote of love,
At others I wrote of hate;
Or of the carnal twinge of lust,
Of the dullness or dread of wait.
I wrote of persons parting,
Of time’s great passage on;
Sometimes it spied me in a picture,
Or motioned in the melody of a song.
I mourn the poems I lost,
When moving house or tidying things;
I cannot recollect those words now,
And the pain of loss within still stings.
One time I co-wrote with a friend,
On a drizzly day in highland retreat;
She finished it off later,
And then mailed the draft complete.
Sometimes I cannot finish,
The verses for a piece;
But when I conclude a poem,
I always feel release.
A release of a creation,
While still connected here to me;
It has been gifted to the reader,
And its verses can can roam free.
Simon C.J. Falk 17 November 2015