Hunting for Poems

Armed with pencils and reams of paper,
I'm hunting for poems inside my head.
Nothing gets written throughout this caper;
No poems are found. Perhaps they're dead!

Is this the end, I ask myself?
Is Calliope's store now bare?
No lines of verse left on the shelf?
I  look but nothing is there!

Should I care if the well has dried?
In truth, I  really can't say.
My efforts so far have been denied
And I've had enough today!

Tomorrow I'll be called elsewhere,
Down a different avenue.
Time will be given to some other care
Unfinished, or something brand new.

Hunting for poems is left undone;
I have other phantoms to chase.
I lay down my pencils till sometime anon,
And I take my defeat with good grace.

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Copyright © Robert Haigh 2019