Epistles from a Northern Shut In
Dearest Whom It May Concern,
My bucket list just scraped the bottom of my creative well.
I laboured to pull up handsful of silt and arrange it attractively on the page, a
hummock here, a swirl there, but along with the silt came the shards of sleep denied, slivers of guilt, and caltrops of anxious predictions of the worst yet to come (I’m saving these to strew in my path if I ever get on to one).
It’s a dangerous little ditty, my dearest Whom.
I can call you ‘Whom’, can’t I?
The Author at the Bottom of the Well.