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.
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