From day to day I work



From day to day I work,

as one works

who doesn't want to think too hard -

I wash the clothes

and sweep the yard

and busy myself in a mob

of motley




But it doesn't stop the itch at nights

as I toss on my bed,

or the wanderlust that runs a-riot

all round my head.

Night here

is not a time for mundane things -

night here is a soft warm scent

on murmured wings,

and how can walls so carefully built

withstand such scent.


I can stop my mind in daylight's air,

but no bed's a fortress against ideas.




© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.