This poem is about something that most poets experience at one time or another. The words; notebook, pencil and dictaphone spring to mind, but in those early morning moments reaching for the pad……. Well, we all know the score.
The Poet
Awakened.
In the darkness,
the thought,
perfectly formed,
races around a clouded mind.
So perfect.
So complete.
So, memorable.
It compels,
it swirls and churns,
demands attention,
confounds sleep.
Yet, in the morning
the rested mind recalls but fragments;
that, perfect thought,
gone.
John Carré Buchanan
23 August 2013