Occasionally a snippet of poetry will insist on being written, but then, despite raving and praying, nothing else arrives. The snippet is consigned to the pages of my notebook, surrounded by scribbles and crossings out. I’ve been working around this one for months:

Silent lie the dragon bones,
fossilised footprints,
seashells in mountains.

I love the sound, enjoy the images, but I can’t shake a full poem out of it.