JOHN CORVAN


MAGIC

subdued light falls gently
upon your manuscripts,
you sit below the window
with the pages of your story
scattered as you shape
and cut a truth, your truth.

The children are asleep
you sit silent smoking
a roll your own cigarette,
you can almost hear it
the river that runs through
the council estate, the cities
the countries,the pure water.

Outside stationary cars rusting
empty streets, a wind growing
stronger you lift your pen
and begin to write.