Rhythms of life

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.

Enchanted 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


I welcome comments and criticism

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