Words flow from mind pictures to static forms black on white
And only I know what they really mean
the picture they paint inside my head
but they stream out regardless bright and noisy
and smelling of damp earth or dog or roses or even the sea when the wind’s in the west.
Starlight splinters and waves break
and still the words pour an unending chatter.
The beat falters, a momentary silence falls
and the world fills with the song of a blackbird.
Such beauty is impossible to catch in a handful of dry words
like the wind in the leaves, the murmur of running water
or all the shades of fragrant colour in the cupped petal of a rose.
Only when I link my words to you
and the deep-night moon-gazing stillness at your centre
that draws me and cradles me in its calm waters
does the chaos of…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 