Kidney beans, chickpeas and your novel companions: writing ingredients.
A fortnight of thought, alone with the mind your father nurtured and fed.
With a hand on your shoulder he said, “Brave the cold winters, its
crippling winds and icy persona, it won’t slow you down, boy!”
But that snow wiped your mind clean, cooled the engine
into a white, blank thought; a canvas you couldn’t grasp,
paper that rebelled every word. Nothing developed,
Words began and ended with a full stop for heat.
You wore the Tipitaka to you chest for strength,
food for thought. Your ink and ambition
frozen, your tongue dry and skin
raw, your humour collapsed.
You were never able
To finish a single
Prayer.
“Shantih – “