Hundreds of poems have I written
Few have read them, fewer care
But what bug have I been bitten?
And why do I continue to share?
I guess writing has me smitten
Perhaps until gray all my hair
Or till my fingers all frostbitten
Or I’m breathless gasping for air
No real joy to be had in writing
But tomorrow I’ll have pen in hand
Rather than out at sea windsurfing
Or building castles in the sand!
© F Aparici 09/11/2020