It

Some days I find it hard to write.
The paper is blank; inspiration has taken flight.
I ponder and wonder where it has gone.
Did it pack a bag; will it be too long?
Did it reel out string when it went away?
Has it gone for good or just today?
Did it take a watch; can it tell the time?
Did it chalk the walls; can it read the signs?

Why did it choose now to slip away?
Just when I have time to sit and play?
Can’t I choose? Can’t I be the one?
Who decides when things get done?
Is this revenge for yesterday in fact?
When I tidied my room and fed the cat?
We had all the time in the world back then.
And it was willing to be my friend.
But I was fickle; distracted and tired.
I failed to pay it the attention it required.
So now I have to learn again,
To listen anew and coax it in.
To block out time and let the words play free,
So once again inspiration will work for me.

It taps me on the shoulder; I turn around and smile.
Today it appears poetry was its style.
It doesn’t always do as it ought;
It doesn’t always appear when it’s sought.
But it never goes far; me and it are a team.
We both work together to achieve our dreams.