the writer

The Writer.
When young, long before the computer was invented,
I rented a cabin in the north of Spain, serious and Nordic
I wanted to be a writer and brought with me a travel
typewriter – you will find one at a technical museum-
ready to stun the world. North of Spain is winter cold
the wood in the shed was damp gave off smoke and
little fire. Daytime not bad a frozen pond and a pair of
skates kept me warm. Nights, however, was cold till
a flock of sheep was seeking shelter I let them in, soon  
the cabin was warm if smelly; mucking out in the morning
took times. Keeping company with sheep and ice skating
is not an ideal intellectual pursuit, to make matters worse
I had no ribbons – a sheep ate them-
Having read Ernest Hemingway I knew I had to live a little
and find my own way of telling a story.