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Field of dreams

The young man sat and pondered with his fingers on the keys.
Outside his study window wind was rustling the trees.
He started, then, to type his thoughts as carefully as he could.
He’d promised he’d be patient and his promises were good.
But the burning in his heart and in his mind was getting stronger
And finally he found that he could hold it back no longer.
So he breathed an open breath and let the Universe inside,
He’d resisted it so long that there was nowhere left to hide.
He had worked for fifteen years on his poetry and story:
Initially he’d hoped his works would bring him fame and glory.
He’d met influential people in the world and in his dreams –
They had given him so much that he was busting at the seams.
And still the fear clouded him.  It sometimes made him cry.
It whispered, “Get a proper job.  Your stories will not fly.
“People like your stories at the festivals and shows,
“But nobody buys books today – this is how it goes.”
But then another voice came in: deep and soft and kind.
And the young man felt it pulling like the hand that leads the blind.
The voice was not so clear – it rumbled more than spoke,
Like the time he’d put his face against an ancient woodland Oak;
The rumble painted pictures of the faces of the souls
Who had said that they would help him to achieve his lofty goals.
There was Claire who knew PR, and Michele with psychic visions,
There was Chris who knew design, there was Emma for decisions.
There was Spencer with knowledge in the world of publications.
There were Mark and Jenny offering to send out invitations.
There was Kate and there was Robert, there was marvellous Mr. Swann –
And the young man realised that the list went on and on…
The voice made one more rumble in the young man’s open heart:
“Write this lesson down my child – share it from the start.
“Make your field full of dreams.  There’s no need to be glum.
“And just like Kevin Costner, if you build it, they will come.”

15th January 2012 © Simon Welsh Poetry
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