I miss it, writing. It was going to be a daily practice and yet I haven't written for months. I have been waylaid by the visual; enticed by colour, composition and form. Words have been locked in dusty books upon heaving shelves behind impenetrable library doors. Words are lost. They lie in long forgotten trunks in dark attics. Once a poem tried to creep along old gnarled floorboards. It slithered between the cracks but it was discovered, found out, banished into solitary confinement in a grey world of persistent fog with a promise of rain.