journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
Small hours, for no good reason
I am sitting late tonight for no good reason
On a day that started late and stayed that way.
If asked I'd blame the wild wind or the season
As it turns and returns, that's what I'd say.
Or say the clock, tick by tock, stole my time
Took it, played with it, and gave it back
Rather shorter than when it was mine,
For I shall not admit I've lost my track.
A late night and a wild wind, moaning in the trees,
Whistling in from the moor's bare dome,
Bringing sad salt whispers from unseen seas,
That's reason enough to sit late, quiet, alone.
The truth is plain. A glass of wine, the fire, a book,
That's all it took. That's all it took.
Copyright © John Bailey
November 20 2001
Somerset
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