Perhaps it is a mistake

Perhaps it is a mistake

To face the window

When I sit to write

I am too easily distracted

By the wildlife

Birds are intriguing

When they feel unwatched

Gossiping and pouting

Playing one off against the other

The third guy

Is always a gooseberry

Or first reserve.

I’m no writer, though,

Not enough of what I scribe

Has been read

Plenty found its way

Into the bin.

It scratches an itch

Much as the Magpie

Is doing for his mate

He has the better plumage

Men always strut.

The cock ‘O’ the North

Was a hotel

And pub on the A1

In County Durham

Back in the days

Before motorways

Took the traffic in different directions.

Everything is a distraction.

From the window

I see a driver picking his nose

Admiring his handiwork

And I wonder

What sort of person can think

Sitting behind glass

Will make him invisible.

That’s when I remember

Where I am

And lower my eyes.

The page is blank,

As ever,

The world is a strangely alluring

Place

For the voyeur,

And I guess that is what writers are,

A race apart,

Absorbed observers,

Better to be avoided.