I Miss This Place
The pen
Its obsidian ink
Not flowing as before,
Across blank sheets
Creating
That gush of stories and rhymes
Marveling at the acrobats of letters
As they fall and tumble over each other
Creating words
Writer’s block, it is not
For on quiet days during quiet walks
The cogs turn
Grinding out form that tickles the fingers to the pen
Until the brain says when
It’s just that
The joy that was gleamed from sharing here
Has all but disappeared
Into thin air
I hope that tomorrow it returns
Like a wayward child
To its home
I miss this place
But it’s not the same as before
Ilis Trudie Palmer
One Love