a poet's morning

A Poet’s Morning

I like to sleep late, almost till eight, my skeptical
duvet doesn’t like to blow its cover, so I pass
my time making up anagrams of famous names,
only I can’t spell and end up with words that make
no sense; I have tried for years to be a novelist but
after a page of reluctant words, I end up going back
to bed. It is said gorillas are bright because they are
able to fold a few leaves together and make a bed,
big deal, the sparrows on my roof make intricate
nests of feather, tiny twigs and digested worms,
and they get babies that try to push each other out;
nature is murder, mayhem and desperate survival.
So perhaps we should be more understanding; when
a flaming bush sets fire to a forest.