Through a weather vane
I now see through a glass darkly
once my imagination was like a sea of
in a lonely churchyard
inspiration came seeping through
like a plant cell rapidly absorbing water.
those table-top tombs
interspersed by cleverly written Jacobean
I felt stirred in my heart:
nature had reserved a place for me!
what went wrong?
Maybe I was basking in a glory
better saved for someone else.
Perhaps in my mental poverty I am better off,
a quiet king of silence.
© Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact firstname.lastname@example.org.