My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from the artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.


Enchanting through the hand which 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.

I almost caught that one.