An August Evening

An August evening This afternoon I was writing a poem but it kept disappearing a blank screen had words on but they faded away erased by an inner logic of self-critic. I like red roses but when I write about them it sounds banal and a thousand songs about roses make me feel lethargic wasting my time; Gertrude Stein said. A rose is a rose… I have tried to write about Tulips and think of Amsterdam I was there often when a seaman. I prefer pot plants now; they need watering but are safe like dinner at five. Lily is a flower in much demand in Copenhagen, don´t why? All I know about Denmark is “Hygge” and “frikadeller.” I look out of the window and see a tree-lined avenue and notice the leaves are slowly yellowing it makes me feel sad.