Swift rambles untangle minds like wires,
and knots fall apart as messy words put out fires
that dare to burn above a brief sunny day,
because those brand the mind. I send away
the thoughts that make me think by
putting them down in pen and letting the key die
in the mess of memory - because who remembers
the name of every poem? When the smouldering embers
fade to grey, I cannot say what was hurtling through my head
with any authority. Better these mad moments be written than said,
lest someone hold them in storage to fling back later. That
won't happen with a poem - it will just lie flat,
blinking occasionally if read (because only good poems call
out), and so I can quietly and calmly forget it all
and pass it by.