A Monologue on the Muse

“Each dawn, along the promenade,
Heading west with a new sun chasing me
And a dim morning moon tracing my trail,
I walked towards the end of our street,
Past the bungalows and side-splits,
Through the narrow, overgrown path
Leading to Front Street.

“There hidden amongst the long grass,
The foliage and debris—remnants of forts,
Late nights and forgotten adolescent dreams—
A small patch of growth, closed off
With a chain link fence (rusted over by time and wind),
Hid alone and invisible to the passing crowds,
Until I happened upon it that summer morning.

“Pulling back the thicket and fencing,
I revealed an unfettered bed of heather,
Which stood matted, thick, domineering;
A dictator among the reeds and stalks,
But there within the clutter
I spotted a lone yellow tulip,
Jutting out majestically towards the sun.

“Swimming handful by handful through the heather,
Deliberate and slow (hesitant, careful),
I exposed the thick stem as a cloud released
Its grip upon the sun.
Under the fresh light, the beauty, the perfection,
Of that lone tulip unveiled itself
And I stood, captured by the moment.

“I fingered the keys in my pockets,
Wanting to cut the stem at the bottom,
Wanting to have the flower for myself,
But stopped, looking into the petals, the cup,
And understanding immediately
This was the fruit of the earth
And I was forbidden to possess it.

“Ingesting its pure vapours in delight,
I turned to leave, looking back,
The heather flattened around the tulip,
As if kneeling before its mastery,
And the solitary yellow blossom
Sat upon its throne, showered in artistry,
I carried away its fragrance to keep forever.

“I walked through the fescue, returning to the path,
Advancing towards the lake to walk along the edge,
Kicking the tide as it rode in,
I found a stick and dug into the silt,
I wrote a name in the sand, dotting the “i”
Just as the moon swept the shores of the world
And now, my boy, I can’t recall her name.”