detained by concertina wire, spiralling out of control
alongside bright white and feint rule. One splotch,
black on hearts unchained, uncharted. A few
notes, here and there and nothing of substance.
About this piece
Writers love notebooks. A new notebook holds so much promise, all that fresh paper ready for brilliant words. But, so often, I fill my notebooks with nothing of substance. I wrote this poem in a spiral bound notebook on a flight to South Africa, 6 May 2016. (The spellchecker seems to think it should be 'faint' rule, but the cover of my notebook says 'feint ruled', so I'm sticking with what I've got.)