Why is it inevitable that the perfect day
is stuffed to the brim with meetings
in long, dull-dark rooms? That the warmth
of sun-gold falls on green things strutting
in my absence, crackling a skyward explosion,
bestowing their favour on the empty of my
absence while I hang on the pling of an email
or tra-la of a text pinning me to the spot
of the all important face-to-face in rooms
where open windows are the closest we get
to real day, to fingers tangled in grass,
to pollen tickling and bare toes browning.
Why does my creative expression
take place in a vaulted shell
with no access to the living daylight?