I gather my thoughts in a wicker basket,
cover them over and stroll into the bluebell woods.
Always blue. Not cold blue. Warm blue.
Blue as fresh air and cackling creeks.
Of the lips of creatures stopping to drink,
unguarded, just for a moment.
The soft carpet under my toes
wriggles with ideas,
half-formed will o’ wisps
that jump up eagerly to my pensive basket.
One at a time, little ones.
When I cannot carry any more,
I sing a song to quiet them,
lulling them to sleep,
and journey back to my desk,
pen in hand.
My work begins.
Treeshallow Musings 