Can I boast of being creative,
When so small the part I play?
At best I'm contemplative,
But in little else have a say.

It's as if I'm a mediator,
Using a gift I've had from birth.
An ideas appropriator,
On behalf of Mother Earth.

For what appears when I start to write,
I received requirements raw.
Delivered to me by day or night,
Through imagination’s door.

Addressed to me, and me alone,
A package of varied cues.
Tasked from these to something hone,
That birth-given gift to use.

My mind begins to ideas churn,
And I’m compelled to note them down.
Initially, though quite taciturn,
Stray words, choice verb or noun.

But over time it's as if whilst sleeping,
The back office of my mind.
Its light on, rewards of research reaping,
Will lines hoped for somehow find.

And with little need for conscious work,
The result: start middle and end.
Is, by some quite amazing quirk,
All ready to the front desk send.

Then all I seem to have to do,
Is transcribe the drafted script.
And once complete, this invention new,
To the reader can be shipped.

For the wordy world, new life it seems,
The charge fulfilled through me.
A birth of mind’s unconscious dreams,
Ever destined here to be.

So it’s hardly me to thank or praise,
As I'm unsure quite what I do.
But if something pondered with you stays,
I'll be indebted no less than you.