Sad Muse

My muse sits sulking
somewhere in the branches
of a tree outside my window. 

The sun is high in the sky,
spring birds sing praises to the day
and laughter filters through
from somewhere unseen. 

But my pen lays dormant,
in worship of the pristine page,
no words to spill, no sighs to instil.

And my muse sits sulking
having duly proclaimed:
I don’t write when I’m sad.



may 2007
Janet Reid