Dawn, A Conversation With The Muse Poem by Andy Brookes

The velvet hand of night rises its fag end grey and cold
shimmering as dawns rosy petalled fingers fill the hills
a blush of rose red and orange dispelling the miasma dissolving it
in the slow heat of its solar fingers across the frosted fields.

'Very poetic.' the Muse says 'But a little like a frog trying to sing like a nightingale.'
there is laughter in her voice. I ignore her the only way to deal with a narcissist but then she is that part of me, the part that says your not good enough or pisses on my own parade, leaving me wet and umbrellaless.

'Ah.' she says insinuating. 'No you are not the guide nor.' a catch in her voice. 'Sadly am I.'

I wonder if the creator in s'his or s'her way is laughing at me again
echo's of the big bang being nothing than roaring gale of a two year old pleased by its actions as it watches the chaos it has created.

action and reaction I think.

'You think too much.' the Muse says 'Why.' a pause for dramatic effect... 'Do you have to be so deep and serious.'

I realise I have lost that spark of wit and charm I once had. Or did I?

'Blame universe.' I say

'Tra la.' is the Muse's peppy reply then 'I'm off to see a man about a poem.' She says.

'What about me.' I wail self pityingly

'You.' she say are a lost cause. Think sows ear and silk purse she purrs.' and is gone as quickly as the mist with the dawn.