The Well
The bucket was lowered then slowly raised
This time the bucket seemed to be lighter
I fastened the handle firmly and retrieved
The source of my inspiration so I believed
This was where so many ideas were conceived
I turned the bucket over and then my heart sank
The bucket was empty just like my thought tank
Where were the words the bucket should be filled
Had they fallen on retrieval and been spilled
I lowered again more in hope than belief
It still came back empty Maybe there was a thief
I sat on the ground by the well in my grief
The well of inspiration had finally run dry
All that was left was the blank page
Not even a drop of ink for my quill
How can I assemble the words that might thrill
To flirt with the women that I love overseas
To assemble the phrases to tickle and tease
To write for the pleasures they demand to please
All I can do is to dredge the pond of quotes
Concerned that in reality it is pond weed that floats
The sun on the oil slick deceives like a rainbow
When the fire burns out there is only a glow
Copyright: David Hopcroft April 2024
Park Bench Tales and other writings 