I just got so exasperated with this poem.  I could see it in my mind’s eye. I could even hear it but I just couldn’t write it.   We were planning a trip to Scotland at the time and I thought maybe that was where my poem had gone, in the train before ours.  So this was the poem that got away.  The one that was perfect, of course, with all the lovely cadences that a good poem has.


The last time I saw that poem
It was getting on a train
For the far north.
It likes it up there,
Crunching about in the ice and snow,
Climbing up small mountains,
Picking up the odd abandoned word or phrase
Lying amongst the grey stones and heather.

By nightfall, it’ll be in its room, changing,
Emptying its pockets onto the bed,
Choosing a word to sparkle here,
A phrase to quietly glow there.
Ready, now, for a night of changing partners.
Until all scrubbed up, brushed down
And wildly excited,
It’s finally ready to dance.

Any time now, I expect that poem to come home.

                                             © 2019 Gwen Grant

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