Poem from the balcony in the night after quite a lot of bubble

 

Poem from the balcony in the night after quite a lot of bubble

 

If I were to write a poem what would I write?

About sitting on the balcony in May at ten o’clock at night?

About my solar lamp shifting colours on the wall in patterns that sprawl against the wall?

About geraniums and petunias that glow redly in the approaching dark?

About the flickering spark

Of inspiration to read Shakespeare again after London, after Ian McKellan?

Maybe even write something as Rhuddem Gwelin?

Or maybe about not wanting to go to bed because this wondrous spring evening on the balcony at home in Hallonbergen has gone to my

head?

But it’s getting dark and chilly so it’s time to close the windows and stop being

silly.

I don’t write poetry, I write books so I’ll go to bed now and maybe dream about the next one – oh look! There it is.

I’m such a wiz.

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