The scribbler

Before the sickle moon
has harvested the stars
I awake and make
a pot of tea…

The books that slink by day
as slow as cats to the centre of my desk
I now hold at bay with an inkwell
and a yellow pad.

My elbow on a patch of blotter
my chin on the heel of my hand
I stare into tomorrow
or sometimes days long gone
and converse with spirits
who mostly, once they’ve said their piece,
show themselves out by dawn.

.
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