I must learn

Not to let them loose

These words inside build up

Spill over

It’s difficult

If I let them run

I am empty and peaceful

But then

Somethings should stay within

Even though they eat

With sharp teeth

And go round and round

When you have so many words

You have to be discerning

What counts

What is art

What is pain

What is mine

What remains universal

That’s the thing

To those who write

What should go

And what should stay

And I stand at the gate

Drafting sheep

Thinking

I’ve lost count

Is it wether or ewe?

Many or few

I’ve never been much good at drafting

I’d go to sleep

A child with the gate

In 45 degrees

Dust and flies

And my father speaks

“For Godsake Kate wake up!”

Words bubble

Poetry forms

Let them all go

But please

Don’t fall asleep

Drafting sheep

And another poem wants to be released

I’m just a girl at the gate

Drafting

*and the photo is not me, it’s one I took during a visit to a friend of my brothers property to capture shearing a few years ago.

But what to leave in and out with writing is like drafting sheep it occurred to me this morning.

Speaking is a little bit like that too. We fall into the habit of the social creature sometimes instead of remaining with the wise counsel of our own soul.

I demand perfection of my behaviour and then realise that’s too harsh. We are all just children when we are behaving without awareness.

And as a child I was always drifting off in a dreaming in the heat, drafting sheep. And ewes would drift to the right and end up with wethers and I would end up in trouble. Don’t even get me started on the count out – I was endlessly distracted and a hawk or something would catch my eye and I would forget the sheep leaping past or where I wasn’t to in the count.

Forgive – most of all yourself X