Wind torn country side
Early morning day light ebbing away
The chill of winter feeding into the bones
Turning to the landscape for inspiration
Bereft of animal
Water logged fields
All fail to inspire.
Unobserved he slithers back into his cocoon
Captain of his pen seemingly defeated.
But wait, he could if so inclined turn this poem around
It would change nothing though
Splintered words would continue to fall
So he’ll sit and suffer in his dark shady room
Draw a quilt over his head drown out the sound of winter.
(c) Chris Black. December 2018