Writer’s Block in a carriage
Like a stroppy teenager, one blank page defies
my intent to write words:
an empty mind and empty paper.
Silence, blank, nada – until I listen out
and hear this train trundle, rumble South.
I let a pen leak a few words
and some thing’s written down.
I learned the duties of a clown from Andrew:
at home in a world of nonsense,
turning up voltage again and again;
not perfectly perfect but urging
inclusion; connecting the hearts of some people
through smiles – with spaces between all their talking and words,
where, truly, a mystery lies.
In a hubbub,
No voice is ever quite as bold as Andrew,
my autistic son
- his voice is missing here.
He can sing – louder than a horn –
as long as loved ones standing near
listen to his rising tone,
resonate a chest, a core
and now I walk out through a door
to stand in rain, suck in the breeze
and clock a waving tree;
beat my beating heart.