More scribblings from the Gin Parlour

Seedlings


I have a little book
I call it 'Planting Seeds'
It doesn't cover gardening or
the misuse of certain weeds
It sits inside my handbag,
a sack of bottomless doom
a secondary part of me
a bag,
a life,
a womb where
the pen is always missing
when the words are coming in
so I've tied one to my little book
with a nasty piece of string
And when I spy a morsel
a tasty little crumb
a name,
a word,
a builders bum
I pull the string and enter in
your name, your birth
(for what it's worth)
your size and shape
and ample girth
to plant the seed
that I may need
to write.