Ode to my Fountain Pen.

Sharp nib
stabbing blue
into the
whiteness
of the
paper.
My three
bony fingers
caress you,
manouvre you
across the
page.
You carve
large knots
between
my fingers.
Making your
mark on
me as well
as the paper.
What pours
through my
brain, you
make it
real. You
record
it. There
would be no
Welford Soar
without
your
intricate
patterns
of ink.
What would
my brain
be if not
for you?
Nothing.
But then,
you'd be nothing
without
my hand
to guide
your exploits
across
the page.
We work
together.
We are
a great pair,
you are
my ideal
partner.
I treat
you with respect.
My work
is yours,
your work
is mine.