Half way to Wordsworth, I took a silent pause,
Leaned on my pen, embracing brief respite…
To scour my weaker words and all their flaws
And too, the very reasons I should write.
To drown such musings in despairing ink,
To read and dream, my thoughts with his compare —
Beneath that mighty shadow, what to think,
That lowly scribe might breathe of Heaven’s air?
Grasping at salvation, I dwelt on you,
Sure peerless worth that many lines did grace,
That on your sweetness I did so accrue,
A ledger proud, to meet him face to face;
Without your love, what would my words be worth,
My inkwell dry, my song an empty verse.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.