Words: A poem 

What are they? Asters, daffodils or chrysanthemums 

In my mind, the ideas tick like clocks; and wondrously hum 

like, on the beachfront, the choir of the waves ceaselessly drums

I take the lights of the auroras in my mind’s skies as they come 

I cannot be as far-reaching as wavelengths from the stars 

But in my perception, expressions are like long-distance cars 

They whizz in meadows for a picnic with inspiration, where they halt 

In that milieu, they bask like herds nursing their precious colts 

Fish can’t breed in deserts, hardy camels can’t walk across the seas 

Hands can’t dam flowing rivers, fierce lions don’t roost in trees 

But my pen is an open receptive fist; I have colour in my wrist 

A handshake with imagination is like a sought-after birthday wish 

I don’t write illustrious tomes, can’t build awesome tall domes 

But shining for me are the humble abodes built from my own stones 

My throne is a creaky chair, and a heart with bright-coloured birds 

That take rapturous flights in the little eddy of my spirited words