The Cypress Trees

Oft, in the sunless April day
I walk the corridor of trees
Cypress I think they are
death-gloomed like the
darkening sky.
They speak to me of cemeteries
grief
and loss.

Their blackened fingers
pointing to the sky
at times shrouded in a
ghostly mist.
The air filled with a
relentless, heavy brooding.

I walk slowly
lead-weighted like
the sky above
oppressed by the blackness
of the trees
and the endless sorrowing
of the world.

Yesterday I mistakenly used page 57 to get my line with which to work. So today I am using line 5 on page 56 which was "Oft,in the sunless April day" For me this has been a way to get back into writing and most especially into spontaneity. To simply put my fingers on the keys and see what comes out of them is so much easier a way to write than to have to 'think' of what to say and then worry about whether or not it is any good. There is a detachment when looking at what the 'writer'within' produces.
Sometimes it lights me up, sometimes nothing makes my soul sing. There can be a jewel buried in the midst of a piece or an inspiration for something new or a line that simply rings true. And this technique seems very appropriate for writing poetry which is my favorite genre.