It’s the force of the thing that shakes her –
wakes her, awestruck, from her sleep,
this mighty blast of lines and shapes
and colours and plans and schemes
all bright and jumbled together,
glorious fireworks spiralling every which way
over the boundaries of her mind
in grand unruly splendor!
Is it like this for everyone, she wonders,
or merely her penalty for having kept
the door to her own creativity
so safely locked and barred
these many barren years?
Will she be able to contain it,
this wild extraordinary profusion,
this pyrotechnic wonder –
or will it turn on her, consume her,
as casually as a Mayfly caught in
the path of a blowtorch?