A Writers Dilema
What is beauty if I cannot write it
On the pages of my book,
What nature in it’s endless glory
If I can but stand and look?
If fragments of a broken sunset
Glimmer in a purple sky,
And etched against the glowing background
Silhouettes of eagles fly.
If night is born in every shadow,
Growing with the dying day,
And slowly, slowly, hill by mountain
Shape and colour melt away.
If stars in multitudes, in millions
Shape the heaven’s works of art,
And in each stellar constellation
Beat an ancient legends heart.
If whispers stir the leaves and branches
Of the mighty Blackwood trees,
And in the dark I watch the wind
That bend the wattles to their knees.
How can I stand and hear the calling
Of the night’s elusive birds,
Or watch the silver shafts of moonlight
Without searching for the words?
If I could write these hills and valleys
Fable-like reality,
If only, oh if only
I could trap in words what I can see.
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