“Wordsmith’s Furnace”

My Words flow like wind through winter:

Draughts of drought and discreet devastation,

Clawing at my creative clamours to cess;

Or thrusts of tumultuous torrents, thrashing

Out upon the ground’s grey and gloomy,

Colouring it white- the confluence of all

Shades, simmering up a serene scene.


The questions asked are quintessential queries

Of whether we are water on whiskers or

Or brittle bark on beech that basks in the

Sun, staying strong and serene in strain;

Maybe we’re masked men in masques,

Or naked newborns, nascent, unnurtured:

Parading our probable potential like 

Blooming, mirthful flowers in summer.


Here’s what I know:

I write because winter means snow,

and summer means water.