Crying to be written

Dawn has reached the ridges to the north and a thin
line of light chased the night west; it is the best
time of day for me – a cup of coffee, Benson & Scud
pretending to sleep in their baskets at my feet,
I am seated, ready to write knowing the lounge fire
is glowing cheerfully, relaxing into profound thoughts.
I had the opening lines when I awoke, a sharp couplet
bought at no cost, bright and brimming with promise
of more rushing on into an easy progression, and beyond.
Sadly it is gone in the inward thrust of the day;
a fleeting adoration lost, a whimsical compilation
of lyrical brilliance – an amazing ephemeral meeting
merely brushing against my mind and floating on,
uncontained, wafting into an insubstantial nothingness.
It is an image I will borrow nonetheless, a symptomatic
consequence of the duress I live in, the distress
of one thousand poems crying to be written.
© I.D. Carswell