A word my fingers just found
in my head becomes a sound.

A thought not quite of full and form
like clouds yet to coalesce into a storm.

To get to “idea” there’s a ladder to climb
for a thought which is yet to be mine.

And there it goes, it was in my head
for a moment, now nothing instead.

Another popped, based on something heard
but also fleeting as a song, of a passing bird.

And this is how a poet sits down to write
when all seems an ephemeral flash of light.

So don’t bother wondering what’s on my mind
for, if you look there’ll be nothing here to find.