The Ink Bottle

It's been a long, dry spell, sometimes I think
The well has all dried up
Ink, cracked, stuck to the insides of the blue bottle
Crusted with age and lack of use
It sits at the edge of the desk, brushed aside like cobwebs
The blue glass worn and brown in spots
No pen in it, for the pens have strewn themselves about the house
For other uses, like scribbling on calendars or scraps of paper.

No place holds the honour of the writer's desk
Dust sits by the stacks of papers and books
Items tossed in disarray, no care given to order and polish
Clutter and muss mimic the fuzzy thoughts in my head
Translated to paper now, they would be mushy and old
Leaden in their delivery, my limbs feel the same
My hands move to type, but the letters are heavy
Too heavy for form, too leaden to live, weary from hoping
For the change that lurks somewhere just outside my grasp.

Through the window at the back of my den I can see fall
Sitting in a shroud behind its sister summer
The scene is framed in navy cotton, curtains that are still
Closed to the breezes because of the chill outside.

But I will walk the beaches yet in sweet September air
Letting the coolness penetrate from sand through the soles of my feet
I will sit and watch the waves in their endless laps against the shore
Forests will call my name and I will go to feel the sanctuary there
Once again my pen will move, the bottle will shine with polish
The keys will move in rhythm, the books lined up in order
And again, the magic of words will flow into rhyme, line after line.

cailin raine