Pencil Musings

That soft graphite core Clasped in fragrant cedar wood : Pencil – nothing more, Notions now bestirred, Flow softly on the paper, Gently ease the words. My poetic muse, Soft and black from Borrowdale, Dark as Sunday shoes, Guide my hand to write - Black hieroglyphs, clear, concise Creep across the white. My favoured stylus Breach the chasm of my words And inspire me thus. Familiar feeling – Poised comfortably in my hand, My artistic friend.