Hand hovering above the page 

A strong grip on a pencil 

The poet waits for her muse 

To open the doors of daydreams

They have been closed down for so long

She barely dares to hope

But a poet whose muse is gone

Is left all broken and broke

And so she looks anxiously at the page

Realising some words appeared

Words she doesn’t remember writing

But words written with her own tears

With relief the poet smiles

Her muse has come back again

To share with her the wonders

Of fae and trees and ocean