With Berlin Blue ink
And flows ever so smoothly
The last fill
Managed a full book
Of Berlin Notebook paper
So the bar is set
As is often said
In our poetry review
I notice that the ink
Is actually called
No.1 Berlin Notebook Blue
It is by Victor Walter
Who I take to be an artist
From those parts
I know little
Of these bales wrapped with twine
Alongside the fen road
I have an idea
That they were purposefully placed
Perhaps by a local farmer
I say this
Because the tyre tracks
Appear to be made by a tractor
The road also
Is covered by mud and debris
Indicative of a spillage or two
I write to you
In ink of indelible blue
I have news for you
Which I believe to be true
I write to you
To say that I wobbled too
I gift these words to you
Perhaps yet another clue
I write to you
With a pen which dribbles through
I have new hope for you
My thoughts in indelible blue
What don’t I already know
What would be good for me
How do I begin the journey
To find that which I do not already know
Might you offer guidance
Provide worthwhile suggestions
Gift me the true magic
Of the already known
Do I have to walk further
Tread new paths, a long way
From the security of home
Do I need to join conversations
Take new positions, possibly at risk
Of loss, and solitary times
What is it all about
Actually I would rather wait
Before you respond
Though not to wait so long
That the imperative meaning
Becomes feint
So feint in fact
That its breaking open
Is obscured or defeated
Better then, with your answer
To rephrase the question
With your own understanding
Only at that time to pour forth
To illuminate the skies
Way beyond the treetops
