Home Alone

This poem spent much time without a title and then was given one by a reader of it. It was written upon hearing a radio 4 drama about a woman who followed her lover to Italy to write poetry (her lover was an author). She ended up spending most of her time writing letters to him about how difficult it was to write any poetry and how she was going to have to go back to her husband soon.

I though to write a poem
About something mundane
So, for ideas, I looked about me
And then looked about again
While the washing up
Gathered in a mountain
I sat and wondered
'What about a fountain'
But the time wore ever on
And imagination, now had gone.
Yet all about the bright sun shone
You would think that, generously
It would give some inspiration
But no, no rhymes would come
And time wore ever on
There is so little now left
Before my man gets home, bereft
Of tasty dinner or tidy home
And, what's this?
I'm all alone.