A fine warm day here in the west of England. Girls are at their girliest, birds are twittering in their complementary treetops, ice-cream vans are making the most of it and all is well. The other day I tried my hand at writing a new poem and was pleasantly surprised at the result. Sometimes I do wonder whether perhaps I should be more demanding of my own perceived gift. It might be a good idea to scrutinize and agonize further, harder and longer before committing any verse to paper. I do not know what the correct approach is, if there is any. I regard what I do when writing poems purely in a rather atavistic manner. I mean I do not wish to analyse the process of writing itself too much for fear of offending or scaring off the Muse. Everything for the Muse, don't you know? It's reassuring, however, that whenever I sit down to write, the poetry keeps flowing. Where it flows I cannot comprehend. It's enough to capture it and then set it free again.
