The Ink That Fills The Poet's Pen

 Some bonus word-play-time as I waited, and waited for my later than usual,
 'hungry, happy supper-clan'...

The ink that fills the poet’s pen is siphoned from the sigh of trees

The noise of boys, the tender yen that draws a mother to her knees

The happiness of home-sweet-home where dreams and Duty intertwine

The pitter-patter of bare feet on dusty lanes, the rain-pearled vine

The warm handshake, the birthday cake, the books that make us laugh and cry

The carriage of an afternoon drawn by Percherons of July

The silver sea, pink peony, blue end of dusk, pale husk of moon

The crimson gong that slips beyond the swell of field and fell so soon

The old town-clock, the leaf-strewn walk, the dandelion-snows of May

The aftermath of winter’s wrath, a cup-of-tea-wee-holiday

The lilt of lark, the grit and spark of lusty fellows in their prime

The slower gait and kinder wait of those who wear the kiss of time

The hummingbird, the landscape blurred beneath a brush of morning mist

The gentle dad, the mother glad, the child laughter and freckle kissed

The newborn babe that makes the cup of joy run wild and thrills the tear

With wonder for pure innocence and perfection of heaven near

Mischievous tot; my, my, what jot your darling naughtiness inspires

The hungry, happy supper clan, God's faithful hand, gardens, camp-fires

The rise and fall of voices after darkness dims the motley crew

And if all else should fail, my dear, never the ink of ‘I love you’

© Janet Martin