Hurry To The Table
There is little left to feast upon.
Choice platters are all picked but clean.
You came too late to dinner’s table
And few desserts remain.
No hunger stirred your eagerness.
No urgency that drove your need.
Others seated picked at scraps,
Looked up with curious gaze.
What thing was this delayed your presence,
This tardiness to diner’s bell?
You heard the call as did the others,
Yet failed to respond.
Faint little did the diners know
That in your room and hard at work
You struggled with a stubborn line
To complete your piece.
Lines danced like tantalizing sirens
Twixt Scilla’s and Charybdis’ cries.
You, tied to mast, could not answer
Despite their urgent pleas.
And so you laid aside your pen
Descended down the cascade stairway,
Made appearance at the table
And took your ‘customed place.
Ignoring stares and muttered queries
You gathered scraps as best you could
Drank wine and coffee, no creme, no sugar.
Then off to works unfinished.
Once again you heard them calling
Lines not fit nor suiting purpose.
Close but not exactly right
Till words dropped into place.
Words your own and not from others
Words to make the thought complete.
Put finish to the sweat of labour
Put down the pen replete.
