Steal like an Artist

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Snowy white hills sing away in the distance

Troubled weather map pours out across this central belt

Sun makes an occasional passing manoeuvre

Teases and reminds it’s supposed to be April

And I wonder and tense up at the thought of what the cold wind will feel like

As if I didn’t know

I know

I have a million words inside me, some picked out by pen or pencil,

Some spoken and carried away, some typed up or texted

Blogged and parked up in website oblivion

But

Most are stuck stubbornly inside my head like lazy pupils

Unaccustomed to work or study, happy to relax, feral children of mine

Hard to get at, to understand, they show no apparent desire to escape

So

I look out at those hills, far away with their coverings, dog walkers and ramblers

Keep my thoughts to myself, reluctantly, safe and personal

Maybe turn them into a shopping list:

Grated cheese

Mushrooms

Stornoway Black Pudding

Bacon

Soap

Cider or something

Morning rolls

Easter eggs for the bairns

On a yellow sticky, where that poem should be.