Travelling for Inspiration

A poem

At MacDuff’s Mount in Sara’s field
there are no daffodils.
Just sun-burst shocks of roses,
the murmurings of bees,
and spattered rain on spire-trees
so tall on distant hills.

We sat in William’s garden shed
and contemplated birds.
Below, the ferns arranged like swords
would drive us down the lane.
An author planted this domain
with simple ink and words.

A tangled yarn of greenery,
the roots are placed just so.
Constructed, wild, both at once,
an unplanned lakeside roam.
Our seeds are sewn and wet,
a tome will naturally grow.