the writer

the day before yesterday
it took me a whole year to
make my inky mark
without a template
but then
my letters grew tall and shapely
and i threw away all the drafts.

my darkwood desk breathed
its affirming love through
ancient bookworm pores
and on reflection
the light from the open window
was a metaphor for
all things new and possible.

today i find
i cannot hold anything for long
a pen, a thought, a lover.
the child that scalloped the hem of the tide
now watches it unravel as
the gulls loiter overhead.

my slippery heart
a fish gasping to be caught
lurches from fist to lap
whilst the sun
unable to face the day after tomorrow
is wedged like a kite in a tree
and the intact horizon mocks.