Hearing Voices

Taking coffee on my terrace …


A soft-centred morning.
The spongy surface of day,
where ideas graze on crusts
of past imaginings.
New life flirts
amongst old dreams,
stirring cold embers
into warm remembrance.

I’m sculpted by these yesterdays,
yet laid each dawn
upon a potter’s wheel.
So work ongoing, is flowing
through an ageless artist’s hands.
And I, bereft of choice
am left, with the clarity
of my Muse’s voice.

© franciman 2020
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Coolhermit
4 months ago

Hm, I like 🙂

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