The Tempest

The trees fly by beneath my wheels
and slimy things writhe in the road.
The worms and slugs and frogs all creep
to bathe and drink as skies unload.

Quite unprepared I squint and glare,
my sweat commingled with the rain,
and pedal faster through the muck,
with thighs exhausted from the strain,

Then think, "Aha! a poem is lurking
somewhere in this soupy mess.
I'll hurry home and dry my hands,
then let the keyboard do the rest!"

But strangely nothing happens while
I drip before the glowing screen.
"I know -" But no - the power's on.
The cursor blinks impassively.

I scratch my head and wonder then,
"What drives a writer to his pen?"

I could have gone on with my day
quite cheerfully, without a thought
(in fact, a week ago I would)
but now I'm restless and distraught.

I fume and ponder at this curse
that seems to have moved in upstairs
and try to wrestle forth some thought,
emotion, rhythm, fears or cares.

"Imbue the empty day", I cry,
"with something I can write about
a storm, a gale, a ship, a sail" -
but only silence greets my shout

and finally, looking from the screen
and staring blankly at the lamp
I realize no storm's afoot -
that all I am is slightly damp.

Sept '99

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