Grounded

The ink that was scraped
all over the paper,
left only squiggles
the colour of damsons,
my favourite fruit
that’s made into jam,
and right at this moment
that’s right where I am.

For a quill that is broke
is no more a feather,
and featherless fowls
can’t reach for the sky,
both stripped of our wings
we’re grounded together,
a quill-less poet
and a bird that can’t fly.