THE SCRIBE:

She lives deep down & within her old head,

Her eye upon the world, her mind well read,

Tip-toeing through people, skulking & swerving,

Quietly watching, listening, silent & observing,

She is the Writer.

Mute but not deaf, every word, she hears it all,

She sees the lovers, the lepers & those who fall,

She scribbles & jots, types, writes & duly notes,

About politician´s jargon & the sad useless votes,

She is the Scribbler.

Waxing lyrical in ode, sonnet, quatrain & rhyme,

Sitting in old cafes, quiet & not wasting her time,

The pain & wailing of abused women´s sore plight,

The men in faraway countries, sent off to their fight,

She is the Poet.

 She is writer, scribbler, poet & natural born scribe,

Cynically witty, in irony & in her daily verbal diatribe,

Diving into etchings & sketchings of errant lost words,

Giving freedom to paragraphs on wings of versed birds,

She is the Essayist.

Composing her essays, poetry & the rambling lost prose,

She weeps with the widow at the grave, offering last rose,

The ranting, the raving, the laughter & sweet soft lullaby,

Penning hymns, psalms & prayers of times long gone by,

She is the Bard.

And when all is said & done at the long end of the day,

Her tired head under her wing, she kneels down to pray,

For inspiration to waft her, off to heaven´s golden door,

So that she may begin all anew & start scribing new lore,

She is the Scribe.