A drowning slog in the sky,
Awaiting a withy to rise and fly.
An empty envelope of starless location,
Endure the floods of lightning notions.
Hath came that star full night,
With sheets of paper, dreams on mind.
A thoughtful spark to hidden mind,
Bunch of words and the thunderous crime.
Poem that never meant to be,
The poem ever came to be.
Bosom in the literate world,
For a teacher like Wordsworth.
A ray of light to ticklish play,
The credence that he will write some day.
She need not have teacher’s day,
Call every day a teacher’s day.
A drowning slog in the sky,
Have a withy to rise and fly.
