Sitting at his desk

Quill poised, elegant hands dancing

Over curling parchment riddled black

Ink staining those clever fingers.

Step, one, two, three, spin

Go those agile fingers twirling

Creating words, spellbinding words

That make the mind sing and query

At what a strange and marvelous thing

To be sitting where he sits

At that old wooden desk, bent forward

Quill at the mercy of the erratic master

On and on and on and on and on

Flowing, dancing, flowing, dancing

With a leap in between as the hand

Jumps up to begin another line

Like the actors on the stage, like them

As he sees in his mind's eye them

Spinning and flowing and twirling

Mirroring his clever witted words

Black against cream, startlingly familiar

Yet new as all writing is, as no story

Can ever be told the same way twice.