...His Muse and your Creator...

*His Muse and your Creator*


Cobbled streets and aesthetic trees; faraway they’re native, line your path
A large park entrance; its gates rot iron and Georgian lies welcoming.
Some folk do come, some others go, and the rest they stand and wait
A meeting point of modern Dublin, a photograph beholding grandeur
A chilled northerly breeze blows from your feet Autumnal leaves
You stand amongst the weekend crowd and he is dreaming yet again it seems.

Steady he paces around the study room, its damp cold interior typical of neglect
He places his long bony finger upon the dusty sill, brushing away all evidence of
days on-end spent writing, spent thinking, dreaming.
His harsh breath exhaled with difficulty, moves the silken drapes as he watches the
Park gate, and his lungs draw in the damp of the room.
He sets up his desk and begins his daily account. He writes what he sees until he sees what he dreams.

You leave from the gate so graciously, light rain has halted its fall, and the sun has gone for rest.
He finds you in his work as he writes of true love. He writes with passion that only the lonely can.
The deep red sky burns at the Victorian terraces above but the streets are kept cool by the calm of the breeze.
The deep red sky shines light on his terrace and his poems with you as his muse are kept flowing like that of the breeze.