For some in my field the rhythm and rhyme of a turned phrase comes out naturally in even metre;
Measure for measure the language of melody and whistle-whispered tune of a thought is laid down
Neatly: as notes are planted in the rows of a staff so are the petals and pedals
And knots and naughts and oughts picked up from their stray places by the storyteller's quill.
This field of mine is old; it is a fertile land and well maintained, though it may seem unruly at first
Glance: a short story goes to seed and delicate white tufts of the idea escape their native land on the breeze;
A poem blooms like cherry; the novel climbs like ivy; the devil's paintbrush spatters the landscape
With conflict and convict and red and read and read as it dances through time and its tenses.
It is a beautiful place, my field. It is so full of imagination, half-opened ideas and words chasing words
That whir and purr and prowl and prance and dance around and around each spark-of-a-memory tree
So I sit in the meadow and open my mind to its floral stimulus and each enchanting colour that fills
Me: happy and quiet, paper in pocket, pen in hand... trying to join the artists.
