Half way to Wordsworth, I took a silent pause,
Leaned on my pen, embraced a brief respite
To scour my weaker words and all their flaws
And too, the very reasons I should write.
To drown these thoughts in sad despairing ink,
To read and dream, my own thoughts to compare —
Beneath a mighty shadow, what to think;
That lowly scribe might walk in heaven’s air?
But in salvation here I dwell on you,
Your 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.