The Poet

Carefully chosen words laid in like brick

And then the mortar grit and muddy thick

To build a structure where no ready form

Could yet unto the watchful eyes discern;

But still the layer labored unaware

Indeed quite doubtful anyone should care

For there was such fulfillment in that work

No part of him would deign to stop or shirk

That labor born of love that egged him on

Until upon that page no light yet shone.

Rest of tomorrow ‘til the sun shall rise,

Where line by line fresh toil greets the skies.

Loubert S Suddaby poems