the pine-cone

I had an idea, whilst driving,

Not so much an idea,

As an idea of the sort of idea
that occurs to an artist or a writer.




But this is a bit abstract so I am picturing
a small pine-cone, dry and open,
come to rest among needles and lichen
on a dry and sunny rock.




The idea just comes to you, an eminent author remarks,
You don't choose it; only
whether to pursue it or not.
I've seen pine-cones on rocks, so many times, but not recently.


Back of the estate comes the cawp of a raven
flying from an unknown point in the west
to somewhere in the east.
It isn't an invitation, but it invites.


Do ideas arrive like that, one at a time,
each inviting pursuit?
If one taps at my door, how fervently I'll answer:
My life, yes. but a poem, maybe not!