A Poem about Writing Poetry

A flurry of snow?
Possibly. But not today.
A flurry of thoughts though. Everyday.
Walking the dogs alone in Tiglin Woods.
Always alone, talk kills the flurry.
A flurry of words, thoughts, phrases.
A poem possibly.
Words, ideas, flying,
Flurrying in my head.
Like my brain talking to itself
While I look on.
Try to remember,
Maybe something worth putting down.
Think of my friend Ciarán
Composer of wonderful words
And haunting melodies.
Always asking himself “Is it any good?”
Back at home, a coffee, a smoke,
Trying to catch the flurry down on paper.
Like this.
Read over again and again.
Nip and tuck. “Is it any good?”
It’s on the page now. Fixed. Final.
Yet somehow lacking the vibrancy,
The magic of the flurry in the woods.

Martin Swords
Wicklow Writers
December 2014

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