Words wander; lost sheep
In my mind, that I'm so tired of counting;
When the furnace of creativity roars
Into white hot life; as white as the
Lamb gambolling in dew-soaked fields.
In the early hours I stretch
For my well-worn notepad; keeping its habitual
Bedside vigil, and scribble until tiredness
Overwhelms my mind.
As the lamb, satiated by a hearty breakfast
Joins me again in dreams of creative desire.
