Today I will write a poem, I think,
it feels like a good thing to do.
But my head is lacking coherent words
and my rollerball hasn’t a clue.
Inspiration is playing a rascally trick,
an elaborate hide and seek.
Despite me hunting my hardest,
it turns out I’m lacking technique.
I extend my search to the garden,
‘a ha!’, my gaze rests on the shed.
I tentatively tiptoe towards it,
then pause by the begonia bed.
My shed isn’t prone to noise making,
he’s actually rather repressed;
the scuffling sounds from within him
must mean an uninvited guest!
My legs feel they might turn to jelly,
but they walk to the plain wooden door.
What if the guest isn’t friendly,
but some sabre-toothed carnivore?!
Creaking on oil thirsty hinges,
I ease open the door just a crack.
Peering into the dark past barrow and spade,
a beady black eye stares back.
I throw open the door with a squeal of surprise,
as the intruder ruffles my hair.
Her take off was rather unsteady,
as she hadn’t much chance to prepare.
She’s not quite a sabre-toothed beastie,
just a wood pigeon in the wrong nest.
I step to one side as she flaps past my ear,
‘W-hoo-hoo’, she coos, unimpressed.
Inspiration is tricky to find,
taking myriad shapes and sizes.
It turns out it takes many forms,
even birdlike, feathery disguises.