A writer's demons

A writer's demons

(After a performance of 'Christabel Released' - by Ralph Hoyte)

There once a weary writer free

Found solace by an old oak tree,

She found within its outstretched branch

An air of grace to write carte blanche.

Her poetry encroached, did sin her, 

A mind trapped fast fly-like in amber.

He found her in a state of flux

A mazed dear maid now there's the crux.

Her neck was bent o'er like a snake

It fair did make the knight a-quake!

But wake her from her trance did he, 

Here starts this tale of poetry...

Her pen is sharper than his sword

She knows no fear, is untoward,

She casts a spell on his dear heart,

Deeper than home-made apple-tart.

He walks on clouds he floats upon

Not knowing when love will be gone.

The moon it shone down yonder vale

And moved her from beyond her pale,

Of cheek she blushed to see him ride

Chestnut his steed against the tide,

But lo the comet streameth cometh!

Universe collideth someth!

Saddled up the writer's bosom heaved, 

Her heart she carried on her sleeve,

Dressed as she was the chestnut shook

Her books fell plop into the brook!

She gathered up her skirts and waded

Through the water, writings faded.

Henceforth she vowed to write with gusto

Put the effort in she must-o,

Not to mention add enchantment

(Words that rhyme can feed advancement!)

Tell her not to sink but swim 

Ne'er lose her words in search of him.

A Wensley

23.10.2025