‘What are you working on, Pen?’ He leaned over her shoulder to look. Penelope put her hand over the page.
‘It’s nothing. It’s just...’ She paused, too shy to reveal what she had been writing. ‘It’s kind of a poem.’
‘Let me see.’ He picked up the paper and started to read. ‘My God,’ he gasped, after a few seconds. ‘This is amazing.’
‘No,’ she mumbled. She could already feel her face flushing.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You’re an amazing poet. The best I’ve ever read, and I’m the poetry critic for a national newspaper. This is nothing short of genius.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would be interested,’ she said, modestly.
‘You must read it to me,’ said David. ‘I could never do it justice. I need to hear it from you. Out loud. In full.’
‘Well...’ said Penelope, blushing. ‘Okay. Here goes...’ As she read the poem, the whole world seemed to fall silent as new layers of consciousness were opened by her words:
O! My aching soul aches for the refreshing touch,
Of crystalline water my soul too refresh,
Like a dry frog jumping in a pond after sunshine to much,
Our thought’s and feeling’s and live’s now must mesh.
The silver moon high up above us in the dark, black, night, sky,
Is like a silver light in the sky so black,
It hangs up above so very, very, very, very high,
It rises in the night and in the daytime it goes back.