My old blue fountain pen allows 

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush. 

  Enchanted by the hand that writes, 

Bewitched   by art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score 

Through which we pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home. 

  As, mysteriously to you, to me,  

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

  By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind.  

They enter vision quite unplanned,

  Like moths to flutter softly round  

Fire joined heart and hand.  

The pen slows down, the hand goes still  

And just as dreams at daybreak will,  

They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone.  

Like raindrops  on  hot stone