My Favourite Place to Write

Goes everywhere with me.

In a tidy little nook, With a comfy place to sit, A coffee that’s steaming, And a window for quiet contemplation.

I find my favourite place to write.

On the edge of a riverbank, With bird sounds and a bubbling brook, Crisp, clean air, And a gentle breeze.

I find my favourite place to write.

On a creeky old rocker, With a whiskey in hand, Crackling flames dancing before me, Primed for overthinking.

I find my favourite place to write.

In a freshly cleaned room, Track marks on the carpet, Open windows and spring air, Mixing with the aroma of a freshly brewed tea.

I find my favourite place to write.

On the soft white sand, Waves crashing in the distance, Saltwater and sun on skin, The scent of summer in the air.

I find my favourite place to write.

In the bustle of a busy cafe, Coffee beans and fresh pastries tickling senses, Tempting and beckoning, A quiet spot in the middle of chaos.

I find my favourite place to write.

At the cluttered kitchen table, One hand on the keyboard, The other nursing rosé, At the end of a busy day.

I find my favourite place to write.

In the unexpected moments, Of quiet and reprieve, When tired feels overwhelming, But inspiration conquers.

I find my favourite place to write.

No matter where I am, No matter who I be, My favourite place to write, Goes everywhere with me.

This was in response to a poetry challenge, tagged by Arpad Nagy—Write a poem about your favourite place to write.

For more poetry by me: