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