An Idle Writer's Apology

I seat myself by
Caesious lakes
And wonder why
I write not
About the shimmering green
That just vanished
Into the whipping fin
Of a passing trout.

A warm Friday
Takes me o'er hills
Closer to the golden orb
Of taking delight
In things far away
And made into a tapestry
Of browns and yellows
And moving specks
Of men and matter.

I fail to write
Them into my notebook
Where I hope that
Some page shall bare
The words to me
So that I can run my pen
Along the outline
Of what already shimmers.
Maybe the next page will.

The market welcomes me
With shouts and bargains
Punches of red
And fruity peaches
Bunches of grapes
And undone jackfruit,
Like the open mouth
Of a green hippo.
I walk by the lady
with her skirt hitched up.
I admire the olive skin
Breathing in a background
Of bleeding tomatoes.
She smiles and raises her foot
On tiptoe and twirls it slightly.
Baubles of red, swell
Around her ankle
And I raise my eyes along her
Smooth calf
And thank her.

I return home
And take out my
Notebook, only to realise
That there is
Nothing much to write.
What was seen
That day
Will never be seen again
And I don't write fantasy.

At the park
I slide into an old bench.
When was the last time
You felt the cold
Rivets press against
Your thigh?
I see young children
Run around a tree
While the wind
Laughs through
The teeth of leaves.
Old men yaw
On stiff brown sticks
While they cluck their
Tongues
At young boys and girls
With iPods plugged into
Their consciousness.
I watch how parents,
Parents to be
And those-who-never-will-be
Rush to placate
The fallen child.
And the child cries,
Hollers
For wouldn't all that
Attention go waste?

I see this large canvas
And tell myself.
"Never,
Never would you be
Able to capture it
All.
And you wish to do
It on a small
Piece of paper?
What impudence!"
I recline
And watch the heavens
Spurt a star
Wherever I poke a finger.
I smile
And the crescent appears
From behind a cloud.
Why write
When all that can be written about
Walks,
Shines,
Cackles,
Laughs,
Moistens,
Floats down from the heavens
In our midst?

Hence, I am an idle writer.
But I ask myself
While I and I laze
Under the golden mesh
Of an afternoon shade,
How could I
Be an idle writer?
I could either be
Idle
Or I could well be a
Writer.
I take out my notebook
But realise
That the poignancy of
That logic
Is lost.
I stretch and squirm
In the tickling sun rays
And let my notebook
Slip to the earth
Under my hammock.
I could write
Or maybe later.
Or be
An idle writer.