Hearing Voices

A soft-centred morning.

The spongy surface of day,

where ideas graze on crusts

of past imaginings.

New life flirts

amongst old dreams,

stirring cold embers

into warm remembrance.

I'm sculpted by these yesterdays,

yet laid each dawn

upon a potter's wheel.

So work ongoing, is flowing

through an ageless artist's hands.

And I, bereft of choice

am left, with the clarity

of my Muse's voice.