A passive desire
While I wait
For you to reappear
Not a cake to bake
Nor a cupboard to clean
Neither are needed this morning
To one side a dark blue sky
The kind which suggests thunder
To the other side, a silver light
Playful
Through the skeletal tree
(It is deep mid-winter)
Incense smoke
Flows down the fountain
Incense smoke
Rises to the ceiling
Up and down
Like the hole in the bucket collection
Of our hopes and emotions
And, as the smoke
Swiftly kisses, one wonders
What has happened
To the gravity of being
Do the words
Open up the reader
To gift a happy smile, or perhaps a solemn tear
The Lamy fountain pen
Found again
And re-loaded
With Berlin Blue ink
Blue being my colour
Of love
In all of its beautiful shades
Sky through turquoise
Navy onto royal
Teal to azure
Smoke rings
To oceans kisses
Sips of gin
To immerse all
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Ha ha
While looking
For something else
(Of which I already have a poem)
I found the first pen
With its transparent barrel
With such a surprise gift
I think back
To the highlights of 2023
One of which was the Barn Retreat
And so I booked again
But this time in the main house
On the Summer Creativity Retreat
C’est la vie
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I have more notebooks
Of a similar style
Presumably purchased
From the same vendor
I also have a memory
Of a clear, see-through Lamy pen
Bought for the first collection
I have quite a good number
Of pens and pencils
That is to say very many
Yet, yes always a yet
Yet I know not of where
That first pen resides
It is, so it seems, a mystery
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