Ages Past Poem by Paul Brookes

It seems an age since I tapped the keys;
opened the lock and stepped out.
dancing and fencing with the pen.
the Muse smiles, she knows me too well but keeps tight lipped.
a grey fog slips across the lawn
masking the beds and borders.
leeching all the colour from the roses.

looking out I realise it is only me staring back,
an image of reluctance, steeling myself to put pen to paper,
sucking my biro like a tasteless lollipop.
I wonder, as the Muse looks on witheringly, am I writing the rights or writing the right writing.

sunset like red necks sets slow into the blanket of mist seeming to blend like a southern drawl, honey smooth and magnolia white.

desire is no street car and we all need to depend on the kindness of strangers.
all the strangers though turnout not to be so kind but only cold faces that pass by without a glimpse of humanity in them.


Seems and age since I tapped the keys;
opened the lock and stepped out.