This Was Your Poetry Muse

THIS WAS YOUR POETRY MUSE Summer’s florid abundance of colour and spice; Or maybe winter’s pristine scintillas of ice; Children just being children; or cats at play On some sad wet lifeless day. Your imagery though costly was bountiful Your inspiration was profitable and plentiful. But it’s not how much you paid Or how much you had assistance and aid. Or how much you were dismayed When you wrote your serenade And hoped it wouldn’t fade. You don’t need to even think twice : It’s how close you stuck to the mode, How well you knew the poetry way And humbly travelled the poetry road: And treated your words as creatures beautiful Conforming to the poetry code. It’s not how much profit you made: But how much was still ode.