This Poet hasn’t much to say
He hasn’t much to write
He hasn’t yet touched the snowy peaks of mountains
Hasn’t yet rubbed noses with sealife, deep sea flowing the 7 seas
Hasn’t yet stared up to a thousand different skies
Or trod foot on ground un-trodden

Yet, unbidden, I’m sitting here with words on a screen
Writing to you, with not much to say
And it doesn’t matter to me,
All the things I cannot count among my memories
Because I’m here with these, my words
And you’re reading this
And that’s all there is and ever will be, now, in this moment

And nothing else matters
Cos they’re not even real yet