I was on the plane home the day after my grandfather’s funeral and felt in the mood for writing, so out came my pen and paper. I thought perhaps I was in the right frame of mind for writing something quite profound, or at least making good progress on one of my novels, but soon found I was capable of nothing more than a nonsense poem. I hadn’t, however, even got to the end of the first verse before the silly piece of writing decided to turn itself into a love poem of all things!

Now, I had better be quite clear that this poem is not written for anyone in particular; I haven’t bothered to fall madly in love with anyone yet and don’t particularly plan to for quite some time. Note that I also haven’t bothered to give the poem a title as of yet. Such procrastination in love and writing, not to mention study, work and all the other mundanities of life!

Anyway, enough rambling and on with the poem. I hope you enjoy it:

While evening willows wander on the ever-ending shores,
and the ever-sleeping ponder unawares:
The tigers soaring skyward, their wings held far aloft;
Why then, my love, our love can never be.

At dawn when sun is sinking; at dusk when sun is bright,
and the little goldfish winking at the sharks:
Waves crashing in the desert, foam sinking in the sand;
My love, my love, then cannot be to thee.

Perchance a cloud shall fester, mould to rain upon the ground,
Yet still the sun may best her, vanishing:
Should the stars be ever dimmed, the oceans every dry;
Only, my love, then can our love not be.