I’ve begun another poem – about weddings, and matrimony, and men – and that’s all right. Except I just got a little way in, three lines or so. Then I thought, “Ooh, I haven’t watched this week’s ep of iZombie, yet. Hmmm…”
So pursuing the poem was put on hold. Of course, halfway through the episode, I had a stray thought about the poem. Followed by another, and another, then a complete epiphany about the direction it should take, then a whole slew of verses alighting full-formed in the old addle-pated cranium.
But I held on, strong-minded, determined. It was a jolly fine episode, you see. And anyway, if I just mentally repeated these lines that had come to mind – gold, pure gold – then it wouldn’t be a problem. Would it?
My eye, it wouldn’t. Can I remember any of it now? Can I cobblers. Gosh darn.
I’ve posted up the beginning on Wattpad, anyhow, here. Perhaps if I put my skull in a bag and give it a good old shake, perhaps…
P.S. That isn’t moi up above. I don’t normally write in a state of undress. ( Well, maybe on Christmas Day, drinking before lunch.)
Also I’m not a nineteenth-century French top bird. Oiseau supérieure?
Image – Wilbouchewitch, Nageotte, no known copyright restrictions.
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