Written in the garden of Wordsworth’s home:

 

is a home unlived in

still a home

or a tomb

to yesterday

a museum to life that was

imagined by those

who tread the stairs

that were once trodden

daily

by the poet

writing desks in most rooms

for when inspiration looms heavy

you have to write

lest it gives flight

and is carried on the wind

away

lost

gone

as so many thoughts have

is writing discipline

or art

a part of your soul

that has to run free

(though sometimes it stutters

like a foal

taking its first steps

before it flutters

and flourishes)

words, Wordsworth

how much are his words worth

more than mine

am I mere child in comparison

poetry mild and meek

weak when put with his

will I ever be

as good as he

sitting in his home

unlived

 

Photo Credit: David Levenson, National Trust