Poet's Impulse

At the break of dawn, the last dregs of night still creeping to the west,
I was woken quite suddenly by my muse, dragged bodily to my desk.

I had to write, my hand did itch, my pen was calling my name,
The time was ripe, the verse was right, I had to feed the flame.

The smell of ink, the scratch of nib, they all fuelled my writ,
The feeling right, I began to write, my eyes but squinting slits.