Scribbling, scribbling, anywhere, everywhere,
From Moscow to Delhi, Cairo to Samarkand.
Or sitting at dawn on the No 27 bus
Going down the Marylebone Road before rush hour.
Never have my notebook to hand when I need it!
Scraps of paper suffice, or backs of old envelopes.
Even long supermarket receipts are repositories,
Of ecstatic inspirations or jumbling ideas.
Reminders of characters huddled on pavements,
Remarks overheard with a frown or a glance!
That little dropped stone in the pond of my consciousness
Rippling out as a novel or play.
But my favourite place to write?
Why my study of course, with its Big Bang of chaos;
My computer, my books and my dictionaries all.
My view from the window; my garden-half-wilderness
And the green leafy calm of my five watchful sycamores.