The Statue Writer

The lane lies empty,

The glen bare of heather

As the mind

A cold, dull landscape,

Is left barren

And utterly featureless.

With such extremes
As these
Are thoughts
Of winter
Trapped
In a writing desk
Rattling round
In a drawer
Pounding its outrage
Out against
The underside ceiling
Of its prison
It clatters and rails and screams
Until
Exhausted
Falling silent
To wait
In moody contemplation
Enwrapping plans in plots in
Rationalizations
Until, one day,
An absent moment comes
And the jailer
Having long forgot
Its cruel joke
Unlocks the writing desk.
Make no mistake
Revenge is swift.