The misty shroud covering the land,
Cut apart by the morning sun.
Birds cry and cars rumble,
The day has well and truly begun.
The air is still cold and thin,
Nipping gently at my fingertips,
As I sit down at my desk and write,
Calmed by the scratching of my nib.
The verses flow gently and slow,
Coming more easily as I write,
And around me the world awakens,
The sun is shining bright.
And as I fall into this half-familiar trance.
Words flowing through me, not from,
They tease my muse out through my pen,
Set my thoughts into poetic form.
And soon all is a grey blur
Everything faded but me and my desk
The whole world a sheet of paper,
The paper, the pen, and a poet possessed.