For me , writing is sometimes as easy as riding a bike- uncomfortable, unbalancing and inclined to wobble . Other times it’s more like going for a walk- just put one foot in front of another and keep going. And at the moment it’s exactly like being a level crossing waiting for the train to pass- you really want to get going, you can see the other side, but you just can’t get there. So I’m limbering up and will be on my way again soon. Meanwhile, here’s a picture and a poem to be going on with.
Levered legs raise hefty body
above the stubble. Ears laid back
along your length, you face me, gloves off.
No madness here, despite your white ringed eye.
Later I lean on the fence, strain eyes to find you
in the thinning light, watch for the ground
to breath out, betray you.
Along the hedge,