The once billowing grass is gone, shorn from existence, ripped from green to dirt by savage machinery. Under dripping trees at the edge of the field stands the farmer, admiring the close crop of the land as it ripples towards the horizon across the furrows of once turned soil.
Standing at the top of the hill he turns from the chilled air sweeping through the valley to survey the rest of his land. An oddly shaped patchwork this, bordered by stone and scrub as it climbs and slides across the terrain. The cool breeze dances on stalks and leaves, the beginnings of autumn burning spots of gold and red, glimpses of light through dense trees herald another cycle as the leaves slowly start their long tumble to the ground.
And that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I have no story, no characters, no plot devices, no he said she said. No pace, no direction, no structure nor prose. I am mute until inspiration returns, until the muse once more lands gently on my shoulder and generously bestows her charms and inspiration.
Her visits are fleetingly random, endearingly erratic and completely at her whim. You cannot depend on her to arrive and remain, and deep down as you know that to make such demands would be the end of it all so you stay your course, riding the waves as best you can.
Such is the way of things for this most complex of spectres; she is the free spirit of whimsy, the demanding guide, a strict mistress when she calls, a caring spirit when she leaves, a raging torrent and calming stream. You cannot use what she gives without permission, and cannot call on her, beckoning her to your aid. She is not under your control and needs only the slightest excuse to float away.
The mundane returns and she loosens her grip, slipping away as I type. Dust trails of inspiration whirl as she departs.