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
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.
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: firstname.lastname@example.org Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.