The Wordsmith is a solitary bird
Imagination jumping from rock to boulder
Sadness to sunshine
Reflecting and refracting.
A colourful imagination
And maybe a darker soul.
A quick wit with a slow burn.
Seeing things other see
But in a different language.
How many of us hide a Wordsmith in our heart?
Thinking, writing, re-writing
Paper, scraps or brightly coloured pages.
And pens or stubbly pencils
Or a simple keyboard.
The end is nigh and peace comes.
The jumbled thoughts march,
March in lines across the page.
Uniform only in colour, no rhythm
No rhyme, or regimented and lilting.
Written in private, written for reading
Written for The Wordsmith, or the extended Family.
Does it matter?
It takes two!
The humble Wordsmith and the reader
Read with passion and tears and laughter.
The reader putting soul into the bones of the words.
Enjoy – go forth and share,
Or keep privately in your heart and your head
And in your note book with flowers on the pages.