2001
Polly Blackley, Aged 38
London, UK
Poem
I can almost see the poem amongst the tree’s tender leaves,
As they open like gentle green hands,
Reaching out into the world,
Reaching out to me waiting quietly with my pen.

I can almost glimpse the poem in the sun’s brilliant light,
But it’s chased away by dark rainclouds,
Who just leave these little lines of drops on the window
As I sit here, ever hopeful, looking out.

Is the poem in the map-edged cloud creeping east,
Or in the tiny scrap of blue it leaves behind?
Or in these thoughts of sailors and their trousers,
Of a great tailor stitching while he can,
Before the clouds take away the blue,
And snatch it from me yet again?

© 2001 Polly Blackley - Contributed in April 2001 - April 2001 'Poem of the Month'

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© 2001 Adam Blackley