“Where have you been?” she whispered
“Hiking the Salter path, said I,
in search of fragrant bloom,
and buoyant breeze”
“Why have you returned?”
“Thirst”, said I
Through furtive eyes
and measured voice,
the gentle Muse replied.
“You drank of my font
From shadow, I sutured your pain.
Come dawning my lips gave you bidding
And warrant of verdure again”
“What solace do you come seeking?
What counsel left unendowed?
Before me you stand
……nary wisp of the man
whose soul once flaunted its shroud”
“Thirst, said I”
Woeful lust of phrase!
Lyric born of wretched wounding
Seething atop leavened spoil
Bursting with the bile of bitterness”
“Beauty be the muse you seek”,
The feathery sprite replied
Not the black art I dispense
Pain need not be the spring
from which your words commence”
With stern resolve, again she spoke
“Give scorn the past and move ahead
Step clear of miry ooze…
Abundant are the words you seek
If beauty be your muse.”