From an early frost, the day has emerged into a thing of beauty. I would show you, but the camera on my phone is temperamental. Instead, you will have to picture it:
the blue sky is barely adorned by cloud, the sun shining down upon the newly-budding trees, and the birds are busy gathering nesting material from this urban, crumbling Eden.
Here, in what is often referred to as ‘Rainy Manchester’ there is a sense of making the most of things. The air feels lighter, and scented with inspiration. I’ve been sat outside this morning, giving a few tweaks to some new poems:
Six Line Poem;
Rainy Day Blues.
After the publication of Heading North, it would be easy to get carried away and start to think of another collection.
But it is too early-the poems will come when they come. Seek too hard and they will be chased away. My muse is a hesitant lover.