photo via istock.com

I just need a small room, maybe a shed
A bare space, plain painted, lilac and white;
fitted with shelves where my books will be spread;
large windows, uncurtained to usher in light;
A deep squashy chair to curl in, at ease,
Feet tucked beneath me, eyelids closed tight,
to listen to birdsong, hear waves on the breeze,
Chat to the cast whose stories I’ll write.
I’ll need a big table, solid and stout
for laptop and paper, a rainbow of pens,
to think, to dabble, to scribble without
doorbell or phone line and yes, maybe then
the idea that’s tickling, tormenting my brain
will flood from my fingers, like storm driven rain.