Not another poem about writing poems...

 

When poems were engraved on ancient stones

You’d hope some palaeontologist might engage

To trace the leachings of once living bones -

Your furious monsters and their fossil rage.

When poems were made from paper marked with ink

You might fold them, hurl them, point first, dart

At the heavens, hoping they might sink

To find an answer in some human heart.

When poems were wrung out of your sad soul

By sorrows grown from lonely sensitivity

If no-one loved them, still you could console

Your heart with contemplating your nobility.

Now poems are made of whispering digi-bits

Fizzing around the world - somewhere, you long,

There must be a secret somebody who hits

Your link and, for a moment, shares your song.

But poems are made for an in between, for there

Echoes the beat of the Spirit’s brooding wings

In the space between words and worlds, and you are near

To an endless mind that thought and thinks all things…