A picnic table - Portballintrae sea-front. br The poet sits alone - br Just pencil and notebook for company - br Lost in the typical poet's lonely contemplation. br Quiet observations of passing life - br Ideas form and inspiration ingrains in my mind br From which I'll create my next new masterpiece! br br Couples walk past hand in hand, br Mums and Dads have picnics with their weans, br Dog-walkers stop for a chat, br Pensioners sit and talk over past glories. br And still I sit - lost in thought - br Buried deep in my mind. br Will I ever break through this loneliness? br This loneliness of body and spirit.