Once I’ve birthed a poem and stopped staring in its eyes, anxiety starts feeding on the empty space inside. I don’t know how it got there, or if another ever will; I’ve no idea what made it grow – God knows it wasn’t skill. Its herald is a rumbling from the caverns of the mind, which builds in its intensity to a seismic shifting of disquiet. Faults and fissures open up, misshapen truth is born, squalling and demanding to be healed and fashioned form. The trick is not to think of it, don’t call its name, or stare; (allow it its dark silence to grow strange and unaware). Only once it’s almost whole you take a sideways glance - shuffle some stray words around, find harmony in chance. Then when every note has fallen, exactly where it should, withdraw in awe and wonder how what’s been made you never could.