The Empty Quarter

 

Nomadic arabs call the desert the Empty Quarter,

a place of eerie silence where only the wind is heard.

At night the sky is a black camoopy of starlit wonder,

beneath lies endless undulating sand dunes which do meander.

A vast expanse of wildreness which moves as the winds blow,

shapes and forms grow from grains of minute sand.

There are times when my mind resembles such a place,

when I am bereft of thought and wander aimlessly.

Hours pass by where inertia and inactivity go hand in hand,

when the flow of inspiration dries up in a scorching sun.

No thoughts or words are to be found in this arid void,

as one is excluded, cast aide into complete abandonment.

Inspiration cannot be induced or conjured up into existence,

the well has run dry as we are awaiting the first droplets of rain.

Replenishment will come after much patient waiting,

and when it arrives an abundance of ideas and words emerge.

Then the poet and writer returns to the tools of his trade,

as he sits with pen in hand before a pristine page.