Help! I'm submerging beneath waves of words.
It's three in the morning in Cornwall U.K.
I'm meant to be sleeping, but rest just disturbs
The march of the muse on poor sleepless Fay.
Counted sheep vaulting thru countless barred gates,
Tossing, I turned bored with untidy bed
Now sleep flown, musing begins and dictates
Rhythms and metres to my sleepy head.
Bolstered with coffee plus paper and pen
I must resist the compulsion no more.
I, scribbling, erase, then scribble again.
Nothing emerges, and now it's past four.
What made me think I could ever write rhyme?
I know! - just for fun I'll post this on line !
I used to be a bird of the night myself Fay, its quiet and peaceful and the words just flow. Great write