A ceaseless clatter of distraction
Weaves draperies to clothe a monstrous silence.
Irrelevant, I keep my puzzling penance;
An interloping witness to creation
Of works entirely unconcerned with me.

My scribbling presence blots the evening page,
A broken trinket, yet endless hours apart
From the jolting mercy of the ash-cart.
An inconvenient call for herbergage,
Unworthy even to be cast aside.

Haltingly and crippled flow the words,
Unwilling prisoners to every heedless line.
I long to leave: to pay the last cold fine,
To be released and tread the ways of birds;
And thence home, to smile and speak of churches.

One Response to “Writing by Hand”

  1. Maureen Says:

    superb revisions and additions, a much tighter, taunter, more focussed poem.

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