Prisoner X 2 Poem by Paul Brookes

I woke up this morning
with my head pounding
outside my window a single thrush sang
and I couldn't think of a single thing to write.

'come on.' the Muse says,
'I'm ready to inspire with metaphors
firing on all cylinders.'

no, nothing, not even the cerulean skies
not the high skittering puffer clouds
nor trees green as Nubian emeralds

I could not write about the waves,
topped white with silver edged clouds
the sun scattered rainbows
on grassy bedewed lawns

nor the roses pink heads nodding
perfuming the so still air.

sometimes a perfect morning cannot be described.
words are flat and one dimensional.
the brilliance of the morning is but a dim facsimile
words are like heavy dough cliched, not enough.